


All Those Things I Told Myself To Forget (and to make it through)

by momotastic



Series: I'll Remember You [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Blood, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingering, Language, M/M, Off-Screen Murder, Violence, blowjob, johnlock bigbang, non-explicit John/OFC, prisoner situation, severed body parts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:52:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/momotastic/pseuds/momotastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After over a year of not talking to each other John did not expect to meet Sherlock in that pub. In fact, if he'd known that Sherlock would be there, he wouldn't have gone inside in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know AO3 offers downloads for all fics but if you prefer a shiny version with graphics and stuff, look here: http://www.mediafire.com/?167svdezeoew93c

**February 2018**

 

It was the third time in two weeks that he had been called away from his supper to help out with a minor emergency. A bar fight. As usual.

 

John wasn’t particularly happy that he’d been called. February brought with it rain and cold and so John turned up the collar of his jacket while walking down Shorts Gardens as fast as he could manage with the phantom pain throbbing in his right leg.

 

He entered the pub a minute later and went straight to talk to Bill, the owner. John sometimes helped out with a lightly injured customer for a pint or two.

 

Bill nodded in the direction of the back room and John gripped his cane tighter before going around the bar.

 

The only light came from a small lamp on a table next to an old and much worn couch. Other than that there was a chair and little else inside the room. It was where Bill kept people who had drunk a little too much and needed to lie down till someone came to pick them up or, on occasion, people who had gotten into a fight they weren’t prepared for.

 

John closed the door behind him and switched on the ceiling lights. The bar was only dimly lit and his eyes needed a moment to adjust to the sudden brightness before he could take a good look at his patient who was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

 

John inhaled sharply.

 

An image of _him_ sitting in his armchair like nothing had happened flashed through John’s mind for less than a second before he managed to suppress the memory.

 

It was impossible.

 

 _No, just improbable,_ a voice inside his head supplied.

 

Okay, so it was improbable.

 

Sixteen months and twenty-six days since That Day.

 

Sixteen months and twenty-five days since he’d had to dust off his cane.

 

He took great care not to go anywhere near Regent’s Park or St. Bart’s, he avoided Northumberland Street as much as possible and he hadn’t been to the Yard. He wouldn’t even return Greg’s calls, just to be sure.

 

Of course he knew that at some point they would run into each other. It was inevitable, no matter how much John tried to avoid it.

 

The Work would make sure that they would meet again eventually. London wasn’t big enough after all.

 

“As pleasant as lying around and doing _nothing_ is,” _he_ said, still staring at the ceiling and the sarcasm and disdain dripping from every single syllable, “I only agreed to wait for someone to look at the cut on my hand because it was either that or calling an ambulance, and I must stay as inconspicuous as possible until I’m well away from the pub. Just leave a plaster and some disinfectant on the table and tell the owner that I’ll be fine, and that all this fussing is rather unnecessary as well as exasperating.”

 

It wasn’t a request. Of course it wasn’t.

 

And John wanted nothing more than to get out as fast as possible, especially since by some stroke of luck _he_ had not yet recognised John. At least John was pretty sure he’d remained anonymous, because otherwise _he_ would have turned around by now. Surely.

 

Instead of retreating hastily, though, John set down his bag on the chair and took his time looking for a plaster and a small bottle of disinfectant. He put both on the table next to the couch and clicked his bag shut.

 

 _He_ was still not turning around or acknowledging John’s presence in any way. It was because of _his_ complete and utter ignorance that John found the courage (or probably just enough rage) to finally say something.

 

“I suspect you’re absolutely certain that you don’t need stitches.” Not a question either. If _he_ had only asked for a plaster to wrap the wound, then that probably was all the cut needed.

 

 _His_ head snapped around so fast that John almost cringed in sympathetic pain.

 

“John.” No bored impatience, no disdain. A hint of surprise, maybe even shock, but mostly John couldn’t detect any emotion from _him_.

 

_...I thought it was obvious..._

 

“Since when did you start stating the obvious?” John was glad that his voice didn’t give away anything. Stress did calm him down, after all.

 

“I didn’t know he would call you.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

Neither said anything for what felt like at least a full minute.

 

“Well, gotta go. Dinner’s getting cold as it is. You know how to clean and dress a wound. If it gives you any trouble, go see a doctor that’s not me.” Professional, calm, to the point. John was proud of himself. He turned around and reached for the door handle.

 

“John, wait.”

 

John’s hand stopped mid-movement. There was the slightest bit of something in the request – yes, this time it was a request – and John didn’t know what it was, but it made him turn around nevertheless. _He_ had moved and was now sitting up on the couch, one hand combing through his hair. A gesture John knew well. _He_ wasn’t exactly sure how to proceed.

 

“What, Sherlock?”

 

John was tired and cold and his jeans and jacket were still damp from drizzling rain and all he wanted right now was to get back to his flat and curl up on his couch with a beer and crap telly, because it was important that he keep out any kind of memory or thought that may threaten to emerge over the next few hours. He didn’t want to talk to Sherlock. He didn’t want to talk to the man whom he hadn’t seen in almost a year and a half. The very man whom he had fought hard to not think about every single minute of every single one of the 514 days since he had moved out of 221B Baker Street.

 

“I’m sorry he called you.” Sherlock almost sounded like he was genuinely sorry. John didn’t want to think about it.

 

“Yes, well, he did. Nothing to do about it now, is there? Is that all?” His leg hurt more with every minute he spent in this room.

 

“If you must,” Sherlock huffed out. He was slightly frowning and his hands were settled on top of his thighs. John knew that look well, too. Sherlock wasn’t happy with how things were going.

 

“No, I don’t need to but I want to. So, just say or ask whatever it is you need to so I can answer and finally leave and forget this day happened.” John knew that his voice was rising but he couldn’t have cared less right now. His day had been exhausting and all he’d wanted was to enjoy a quiet evening in. Instead he had gotten called to take care of Sherlock’s injured hand because the man refused to blow his cover by calling an ambulance. He rather thought that he was entitled to _almost_ yelling.

 

Sherlock regarded him for a moment. Then: “You’re not well. You’re limping. You’re working too much and not eating regularly. You don’t sleep enough either.”

 

John knew that he wasn’t sleeping well and that the he’d had to find his cane again. He also knew that a sandwich or two a day wasn’t exactly healthy nutrition.

 

But just as they both knew that he wasn’t _well_ , it was clear to both of them why.

 

_...surely you’ll prefer that I don’t pretend..._

“Anything else?” John pressed out between gritted teeth. His hand would hurt later from gripping his cane too tightly.

 

Sherlock stayed silent for another moment and then looked his face hardened. He took the disinfectant and carefully dribbled some of it on the gash on his left hand.

 

“Actually, there is,” he said slowly. John knew that tone of voice. It meant that Sherlock wouldn’t accept ‘no’ for an answer. “There is something I need to tell the woman who hired me. However, it’s of a delicate nature and it would be better if someone else explained the situation.” He applied the plaster and finally looked back up at John.

 

John was trying his best to not gape. “Did you actually just ask me to _help you with a case_?”

 

“Almost correct. I’ve already solved the case. I just need you to present its outcome to my client.” Sherlock looked pleased with himself for not insulting John.

 

“You’ve got the nerve to ask me to talk to your client because you’re unable to act sympathetic every once in a while.” John wasn’t asking. He wouldn’t get an answer even if he were. But he did feel a small fraction of triumph welling up inside of him as he watched Sherlock’s expression fall from self-satisfied to confused.

 

“I can’t bloody believe you, Sherlock.” John shook his head, more to emphasize his words than anything else. The entire situation was so Sherlock-like that he would have found it funny if he hadn’t felt like screaming and possibly breaking something.

 

He looked back at Sherlock, whose face resembled an unhappy mixture of anger and incomprehension. It wasn’t a look that suited him and something picked lightly at John’s heart. He closed his eyes and pressed his lips together, then he shook his head one more time to reassure himself that yes, he knew this was ridiculous and not good and it would probably set back the progress he’d made by at least half a year, maybe more. Even so, when he opened his eyes again he heard himself slowly agreeing to Sherlock’s request.

 

Sherlock didn’t smile as he might have done a year and a half earlier. He didn’t jump up and clap John on the shoulder or kiss his cheek either. Still, John watched Sherlock’s eyes light up for a split second before the carefully constructed impassive mask was back in place. The light picking grew into a soft tugging.

 

_Yes, definitely a bad idea._

 

~*~

 

Bill nodded approvingly at John when he led Sherlock out of the backroom and the pub.

 

Outside the pub Sherlock hailed a cab and got in first, giving John the chance to back out if that was what he wanted. Of course John wasn’t going to do that. Once he said he’d do something, he followed through. And Sherlock knew it, too.

 

Sherlock gave the cabbie an address in Lee, about fourteen kilometres from where they were. Neither of them dared to say another word. John, because he didn’t trust himself to not shout at Sherlock, and Sherlock because he was probably thinking about the case, if the prayer-like pose he always assumed was anything to go by.

 

Eventually, a good while after they’d crossed the Thames, John finally broke the silence. “You do realise that I came with you to talk to your client. It probably would be a good idea to fill me in on what it is that needs to be said before we get there.”

 

Sherlock, rapidly coming back from wherever his mind had taken him, turned to look at John. “Hm? Oh, yes. We, and by that I mean you, are going to talk to Mrs St. Clair, who asked me to find her husband. He has been missing for a few days and since the police always have been and always will be rubbish with missing person cases, she asked me to help.

 

“She told me that Mr St. Clair had gone to the pub to play a game of poker but never returned. That was on Friday.

 

“During my investigation I found traces of blood on the handle of the back door as well as on the cobble stones in the alley behind the pub. Then I discovered what I assumed to be his suit jacket out there as well. Mrs St. Clair will have to verify that it is his. It was torn in a way that indicates that someone had grabbed it and St. Clair was doing his best to get out of it.

 

“I also found out that the poker games held in the pub often involve the kind of people who don’t mind slitting a throat or two to get back the money they’ve lost. They usually dispose of the corpses in the Thames. It is highly likely that Mrs St. Clair’s husband will wash up on the shore in the next few days.

 

“Which brings me back to why I asked you to come along: you are better equipped to relay the outcome of my investigations to Mrs St. Clair than I.”

 

John nodded slowly. “Right. Okay. Yes, I think it really is better if I tell her the news. How long until we’re there?” He was getting a bit nervous. Being alone with Sherlock in a confined space was not an optimal situation. John absentmindedly rubbed his right thigh.

 

“We should be there in a moment,” Sherlock said, looking out the window.

 

A few minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a nice house on Winn Road. Sherlock told the cabbie to wait for them.

 

They walked up to the house, Sherlock a few steps ahead of John. The front door opened before Sherlock had the chance to ring the doorbell and a small happy blonde woman ran toward the two men. Her face fell as soon as she saw that the man behind Sherlock was not her husband. John felt sympathy well up inside of him instantly.

 

“Mrs St. Clair, this is my associate, Dr John Watson,” Sherlock explained with a vague gesture in John’s direction.

 

John held out a hand to her. “Nice to meet you, Mrs St. Clair.”

 

“Please, call me Linda,” she said, taking his hand. “Do you have any news of Neville?” She looked hopeful, turning to John first and when he offered no explanation, to Sherlock who simply held up the ruined jacket.

 

“First, I need to know whether this is your husband’s suit jacket or not.”

 

She took it out of his hands and looked at it carefully. Eventually she gave it back to Sherlock and nodded. “Yes, this is Neville’s. It’s quite ruined, what does that mean?”

 

“We should step inside and talk for a moment,” Sherlock said and walked into the house without waiting for a reply.

 

The entrance hall was a bit crammed and Linda led them through the nearest door into the kitchen.

 

As soon as they were inside she turned to them. “Alright, out with it? What have you found?”

 

John cleared his throat. “Mrs St. Clair, erm, Linda, as you know, Sherlock has tried to find your husband. He went to the pub where you said he had gone and when Sherlock got there, everything pointed to only one explanation.” John took a deep breath to prepare for the next part. “It looks like your Neville had a lucky night and won all his games and thus offended quite a few people who didn’t like losing all their money. Sherlock found your husband’s jacket in the alley behind the pub and blood on the door handle and in the street. I’m very sorry, Linda, but it looks like the people who’ve lost money to your husband took it back by force and killed him.”

 

Her eyes went wide for a moment. Then she asked, “But you haven’t found a body, have you?”

 

“It’ll probably show up along the banks of the Thames in a few days,” Sherlock interjected.

 

John’s left hand twitched. Why did Sherlock bother bringing him along if he wasn’t letting John handle the situation anyway? It was a good thing that he possessed enough self-control to not slap Sherlock in the face in front of a client. Instead he looked back at Linda – who was grinning back at him.

 

“Linda? Are you okay? I know this is a shock. Maybe you should sit down for a bit.” John tried steering her towards one of the kitchen stools.

 

“Oh no, I’m fine. Thank you. It’s just that if you haven’t found a body then you can’t know he’s dead and in any case he would have been dead since Friday night, right?”

 

John only nodded curtly. Her happiness unsettled him a bit.

 

“So, if Neville has been dead for four days, how come he texted me a few hours ago?” she finished cheerily.

 

“What?” Sherlock and John blurted at the same time.

 

“He texted me. Around 8pm. Would you like me to show you the text?” She reached inside her trouser pocket and pulled out her cell phone. She quickly went through the menu and found the text before holding out the phone for Sherlock and John to look at. Sherlock immediately snatched it out of her hands.

 

“Hey Linnie, sorry for making you worry. Will be home soon and take you on a long vacation somewhere nice and warm. Love you,” Sherlock read out loud. “This is impossible,” he announced a second later.

 

“No, just improbable,” John answered drily. The glare he received from Sherlock would have made him laugh in the past. _Before._

_...his voice calm and calculated, no hint of distress or regret..._

“Are you sure it’s from him?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Absolutely. Nobody else calls me Linnie,” Linda replied giddily.

 

 “This changes everything. I have to go back and gather more information. Let me know the moment your husband contacts you again!” Sherlock ordered, then swept out of the kitchen, leaving John to politely say goodbye and that he – both of them – were happy that Neville was not dead.

 

When John got back into the cab, Sherlock was already tapping his right foot nervously. John didn’t say a word. He already regarded it as a small miracle that Sherlock had waited for him at all. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was habit.

 

He closed his eyes, leaned back into the seat and stretched out his right leg to relieve some of the pain.

 

He refused to care either way.

 

~*~

 

When John woke up again it was well past 11pm. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep and doing so in a cab was never a good idea. He groaned and carefully stretched his neck to get rid of the cricks.

 

“Where are we, then?” he asked a moment later. He didn’t care that Sherlock was probably loath to interrupt his train of thought to answer John and he most likely wouldn’t, but John wanted to know where he’d been dragged off to now. He certainly had fulfilled his duty and wanted to get back to his couch and lie down. Maybe have a cup of tea and hopefully not cry while thinking about the past.

 

_...Do you not want to be with me?..._

 

“We’re near the British Museum,” Sherlock answered without looking at John.

 

“And why are we near the British Museum?” John asked, pressing the heel of his hand into his right leg again.

 

“The homeless network informed me of a newcomer who was camping out behind Parnell House on Dyott Street. He fits the description of Neville St. Clair. We are going to find that person and talk to him.”

 

“Yes, right.” John stared out the window for a moment. “Why am I still on this case? I talked to the wife and told her that her husband is dead even though he isn’t. Good job, by the way, asking me to come along to handle the sensitive part of your work and then ruining it with careless remarks about bodies washing up on the bank of the Thames.” John took a few more deep breaths to calm down. He knew from experience that scolding Sherlock for his behaviour wouldn’t do a thing to change it.

 

“I don’t know where you live,” Sherlock stated blankly.

 

“And waking me up to find out didn’t occur to you?”

 

“I was otherwise occupied.”

 

In Sherlock’s world, ‘thinking’ actually was a reasonable excuse to not do something. Still, there was no need to say it as though it were John’s fault that Sherlock was too busy going over the case to stop for a second and consider what his ex-everything would prefer.

 

“So you decided to leave me in the cab while you talked to your informant and then haul me off to yet another place instead of sparing a moment to think about what I wa- You know what, never mind. I’ll just get out at the next bus stop and hope to catch a route that will take me to Southwark.” John applied more pressure on his thigh and tried to think about nothing but that soon he would get out of this cab and that, if he was lucky, he would reach his flat in an hour. Maybe two, depending on his leg.

 

Sherlock turned his head. John couldn’t read the expression on Sherlock’s face. He wanted to blame it on the darkness and spare light from the passing street lamps, but he knew it was because Sherlock didn’t want him to see what he was thinking.

 

_...not even looking at him from where he was lying on the sofa..._

Sherlock lowered his hands. “There’s no need to take the bus. I’ll take you home as soon as I’ve talked to the suspect.”

 

John absolutely didn’t want to stick around Sherlock any longer but he also didn’t want to wait for a bus and take the hour-long trip to Southwark and still have to walk at least half an hour to his flat. The question was if he could stand to stay around Sherlock for another hour and a half.

 

“It could be dangerous,” Sherlock said quietly and the light tugging at John’s heart was back in an instant. To use those words, the very words that had drawn him in eight years ago, wasn’t fair. But then again, Sherlock had never played fair when it was about getting what he wanted.

 

John looked away and fought the impulse to sigh heavily. The tugging wouldn’t go away and the tingling sensation in his stomach that insisted on reminding him of what he still felt for Sherlock just wouldn’t stop. Eventually John nodded a silent yes.

 

He knew that he would regret this the moment the door of his flat closed behind him.

 

~*~

 

Finding Neville St. Clair was easier than John had anticipated. Of course John hadn’t known who to look for since Sherlock hadn’t shown him any picture or given him any kind of description of the man.

 

The man’s disguise was not half bad. His face was dirty enough to hide his true features. He had dyed his hair a bright red (probably with coloured hair spray, going by the few dark blond patches he had missed around the back of his head) and was wearing too big and smelly clothes. Not a lot of people would have wanted to spend any time near the guy and even fewer would remember him as soon as they had gone past him.

 

Sherlock was approaching Mr St. Clair, who must’ve sensed something from the way Sherlock was walking towards him because he tried to run, but Sherlock was faster. He caught him by the elbow and managed to haul him back around toward John, who, acting from experience and habit, dropped his cane instantly and had Neville St. Clair pinned to the ground in less than three seconds.

 

The rush of the action sent a thrill through his veins that he hadn’t felt in a long time. He was about to grin up at Sherlock in triumph when he managed to catch himself and suppress the urge. _Just another habit that won’t die easily,_ John thought angrily.

 

“Now, Mr St. Clair. Since you’ve been so kind as to stay a little longer, let’s wait till the police get here and then we can talk a bit about the murder of poor James McCoy who was unfortunate enough to be better at poker than you are,” Sherlock said lazily while fishing his phone out of his coat pocket.

 

Sherlock texted Lestrade to send someone to pick up a murderer from Dyott Street.

 

“Let’s get him in front of the building. No need to disturb any more people tonight with unnecessary police officers in perfectly peaceful sleeping quarters,” Sherlock said, motioning for John to haul Mr St. Clair to his feet and drag him to Dyott Street. Sherlock only picked up the man’s bag from his sleeping place.

 

John wanted to protest that his leg wouldn’t allow it, but for the first time in over eighteen months there was no trace of pain and John hated that almost as much as the limping itself.

 

Two police officers John didn’t know arrived about twenty minutes later.

 

“You see, when his wife told me that he’d gone to the pub and when I found out that criminals often participate in poker games with the regular customers – and just as often dispose of those who took their money – I thought that Mr St. Clair here must have fallen victim to those murderers. There was blood and his jacket is torn, both of which indicated that there’d been a struggle. Regrettably I did not have time to test the blood and find out if it belonged to him but from what I knew, I deduced that Neville St. Clair was dead and would probably be found in the river soon. So when his wife told me that he had texted her with the promise of a long vacation in a sunny place very soon, I had to re-evaluate my previous deduction and retrace the case.

 

“It soon became obvious that Mr St. Clair was not the victim of a crime. Instead I found out that he belonged to a group of poker players. He lost large sums on a regular basis and would resort to murder to make sure he got his money back.

 

“Only this time Neville didn’t realise that his opponent was somewhat famous and his disappearance would be publicly noticed. I take it you have heard of James McCoy, the up and coming socialite well on his way to fame because of a few meet and greets with actual celebrities. He has been missing since Friday night – the same time that Mr St. Clair went off the radar. This is why the London police are rubbish with missing person cases. Not even connecting two dots when they’re presented to them in bright, blinking red.

 

“Now, Mr St. Clair had lost against Mr McCoy and went about retrieving his gambling funds as he usually did. After he noticed exactly who he had killed and thrown into the Thames, he panicked and went about faking his own death, or at least disappearance. Had he gone home to his wife and acted as if nothing had happened nobody would have pinned him as a suspect. I take it then that at least one of his gaming partners knew what had happened and was going to turn him over to the police. That was why he found it necessary to make it look like someone else had already taken care of him.

 

“As soon as the worst was over he planned on collecting all the money that he’d stashed away, and then he would have quietly left the country with his wife to a place where, hopefully, no one would find them.”

 

Sherlock finished and smirked with great flourish down at Neville St. Clair whose head had sunken lower with every revelation.

 

“Officers, I think it would be wise to take him into custody now. I took great care in finding and securing this man and I don’t want you to waste my efforts.” The arrogance was back in Sherlock’s voice, never even hinting at the fact that it was actually John who had caught Neville St. Clair. It gave John the strength to not smile at Sherlock in quiet adoration of his talent.

 

The police officers still looked a bit dazed and unsure of what to do. It visibly unnerved Sherlock to have his orders ignored, so he said, “I’ll bring in all the evidence first thing in the morning. For now arrest him for carrying the five inch switchblade you’ll find if you search his bag.”

 

One of the officers took a step forward and went through the bag and pulled out a knife a few moments later.

 

Finally they took Neville St. Clair off John’s hands and John was free to go back and get his cane.

 

When he returned to the street, the police car was already gone.

 

“I called for a cab. It should be here soon,” Sherlock said. He was studying John and obviously taking in the tight grip he had on his cane again, the tiredness that must had been showing on his face and who knew what else. “Your limp is psychosomatic. There’s no need to walk with a cane,” Sherlock said a moment later. John couldn’t decipher the tone of voice he had used nor any emotion that was hidden behind Sherlock’s stony features.

 

“My leg _hurts_. I walk with a limp. You know why, I know why, so let’s not talk about this now. I just want to leave. You don’t have to come with me either. Just pay the cabbie up-front and be done with it.” John was too exhausted to get properly angry at Sherlock anymore. It was approaching midnight and John had to get up at six in the morning to get ready for work.

 

He tried not to think about how close he got to Baker Street every day he went to work. He’d started the job when he’d still lived at 221B and couldn’t find another position closer to where he lived now. However, he needed the money too much to quit.

 

“No, I’ll go with you. Who knows what will happen if you fall asleep again and the cabbie decides to take a tour.”

 

Under different circumstances John would’ve been touched by the concern and probably made a joke about evil cabbies. However, he was certain that all Sherlock wanted was to know where John lived, see it with his own eyes. God forbid that the great Sherlock Holmes didn’t know something.

 

“Fine, whatever.” John gave in and as if on cue, the cab arrived.

 

“5 Broome Way, Southwark,” he told the driver and climbed into the car.

 

~*~

 

As soon as his body hit the mattress, John’s resolve to not let the events of the night get to him crumbled. Stumbling upon Sherlock in the pub, being dragged along on a case – it was all too much.

 

It was so different and still oddly similar to all the times that John had accompanied Sherlock on cases over the years. The rush of endorphins at the end when they caught the suspect and Sherlock explained his deductions. The satisfaction of knowing that another murderer had been arrested.

 

John fought hard against the memory of how they used to end their successful cases but with all that had happened today, the battle soon was lost.

 

**_August 2015_ **

_John grinned happily at Sherlock after they finally got back to their flat. The interrogation at the Yard had taken forever and by the time they were finally free to go, even Sherlock admitted to being hungry, so they’d gone for Indian food. Neither had been able to fully concentrate on the meal. The case had taken almost a week to solve and Sherlock had a strict ‘no distractions during cases’ rule._

_Now they were standing in the middle of their living room. Sherlock smiled at John and then turned toward their bedroom while unbuttoning his shirt._

_John could take a hint, especially about his favourite after-case ritual._

_He followed Sherlock to the bedroom and found him sitting on the bed, bending down to untie his shoes. His shirt was already gone and John longed to touch, but instead opted to strip off his cardigan and shirt while toeing off his own shoes and socks._

_Once naked, John stepped closer. Sherlock, still sitting on the edge of the bed, parted his legs for John, who immediately dropped to his knees and pulled Sherlock’s head down for a kiss._

Kissing Sherlock will never be not perfect, _John thought for a moment, before undoing Sherlock’s belt and trousers. He pulled away from the kiss to give Sherlock a little push. Leaning back, Sherlock lifted his hips so John could pull off the rest of his clothes. Sherlock propped himself up on his forearms and watched as John stood to grab one of the pillows from behind Sherlock. He threw it down in front of Sherlock before taking off his own jeans and underwear._

_John stepped back between Sherlock’s legs and leant down to kiss him again. He ended the kiss when his legs and arms started to protest and got down on his knees in front of Sherlock once more instead, this time comfortably kneeling on the pillow._

_He started kissing up Sherlock’s left inner thigh, stroking Sherlock to full hardness and after a while moving to his right thigh with his mouth._

_Sherlock started to breathe more shallowly, and when he moaned John finally dragged his tongue slowly up the underside of Sherlock’s cock. Sherlock moaned louder this time, and John heard his name falling from Sherlock’s lips. He loved Sherlock’s voice any time of the day but the breathlessness of arousal was enough to make his own erection twitch._

_John resisted the urge to touch himself. He knew Sherlock would take care of him later. Right now all John wanted was to make Sherlock come. He took his lover’s cock into his mouth and started to suck, lightly at first._

_Before Sherlock, John had never given head and he was sure that he wouldn’t have enjoyed it half as much if it had been anyone else. He opened his eyes to look up the length of Sherlock’s torso. His head was tipped back and he was struggling to stay propped up on his arms. John stopped sucking for a moment to swirl his tongue around the head of Sherlock’s cock and use his right hand to fondle Sherlock’s balls._

_“Hmm, John, yes,” Sherlock moaned almost sibilant. John could feel that Sherlock was close._

_He took him back into his mouth and bobbed his head up and down while rolling Sherlock’s balls in his hand. He stroked Sherlock in sync with his mouth and moments later Sherlock came down his throat moaning John’s name. His arms finally gave out and he fell down onto the bed._

_John pulled his mouth off Sherlock’s cock and got up to get a drink of water. He brought back a damp wash cloth to clean up the bits of come he hadn’t managed to swallow._

_When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock’s breathing was slowly normalising and by the time John had finished wiping away the semen, Sherlock was sitting up again. He reached for John’s hip and a moment later John straddled Sherlock’s lap, his erection pressed against Sherlock’s belly._

_John leaned down and kissed Sherlock again, slower this time. He must have overlooked the bottle of lube, but when Sherlock’s hand started stroking John’s cock, it was slick and warm and perfect._

_He broke their kiss and leaned back, bracing himself on Sherlock’s thighs and moving into his touch. John’s eyes were closed but he knew Sherlock was staring at him. He could feel the other man’s eyes on his face._

_“John,” Sherlock whispered, and it undid John. He came with a groan and a last twitch of his hips. He was grateful for Sherlock’s left arm that held him in place or else he would have fallen off Sherlock’s lap._

_John opened his eyes a moment later just to see Sherlock wiping at his own chest with the washcloth. John leaned forward and claimed Sherlock’s mouth again._

_“We should take on more cases. I rather like the celebration after you’ve solved one,” John murmured against Sherlock’s lips._

_The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a sated half-smile. “I suppose you’re right.”_

John groaned gloomily at the unwelcome memory. He screwed his eyes shut and tried to force himself to forget.

 

 _Definitely a setback of at least six months,_ he thought before finally drifting off to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_…You’re not dead or severely injured..._

_...So you really don’t love me at all..._

_...Absolutely certain that you don’t need stitches..._

_...Tell me what happened today..._

_...My leg hurts..._

_...Surely you’ll prefer that I don’t pretend..._

_...I thought it was obvious..._

_...I told you I don’t fall in love with anyone..._

_...John, wait..._

 

~*~

 

Someone was washing dishes in the kitchen.

 

_John._

Sherlock shook his head. _Stupid._

 

It _cannot_ be John. Sherlock had taken him to his flat last night. John lived in Southwark now. John didn’t have keys to the flat anymore, and even if he did he would not use them to sneak in to wash the dishes.

 

That only left-

 

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted, wrapping his sheet around himself as he got out of bed. “What are you doing to my dishes?” he asked before he even entered the kitchen.

 

“Sherlock dear, you really should wear slippers. Your kitchen is more like a war zone than a place for eating.” She turned around, hands covered in foam and holding a plate. Sherlock shot her a look of utter disgust. As if he used the kitchen to _eat_. Even when John was still here they had taken their meals in the living room.

 

Sherlock’s mood rapidly soured when he caught himself thinking about John again.

 

“Instead of messing up my carefully arranged experimental environment you could make yourself useful and bring me some coffee,” he snapped. The moment the words out of his mouth he knew they weren’t the right ones.

 

“First of all, I’m not your housekeeper, and secondly, if your kitchen becomes a health hazard then it _is_ my concern. Now go and put on some clothes and when you come back out I’ll be ready to accept your apology.”

 

Frowning, Sherlock turned around and walked to the bathroom.

 

_If John were here-_

 

He cut off the thought before it could progress further. He had managed to ignore the part of his mind that insisted on reminding him about John for almost seventeen months. It wouldn’t do to slip up now simply because he’d run into him last night.

 

He squeezed toothpaste onto his toothbrush and started brushing his teeth furiously.

 

Sherlock was aware that it was he himself who had talked John into coming with him for the case.

 

_Because Mrs St. Clair needed to hear about her husband’s death and John has a good bedside manner. He also came in handy when Mr St. Clair tried to run away. Military training is useful after all. One of the reasons I kept him around for so long._

He nodded to himself while dressing. Those were all good rationalisations for having invited John on the case. Only when John fell asleep in the cab, and later, when they were on their way to Southwark after the case was closed had Sherlock’s mind wandered. He’d started analysing John. Not enough sleep, too few meals and too much work. Money was tight and clearly the limp was back.

 

He applied shaving cream and set the razor to work on the smattering of stubble on his chin, cheeks and neck.

 

Sherlock blamed the cane for his failure to recognise John when he entered the room at the pub. He hadn’t had time to properly observe John with a walking aid in three and a half years. John had been relying on it when he moved out, but how was Sherlock supposed to know that John was still using it?

 

Of course he didn’t actually worry. John was strong and he would manage. He was working and had a place to live and probably a new partner. But he wasn’t completely over their breakup yet. Either that or he was still angry about what had happened. _Maybe both?_ Sherlock would need more data to know for sure.

 

He wiped off the last bit of shaving cream and went back to his room to get dressed.

 

What bothered him the most was that he had fallen back into the old pattern of taking John along on a case. When Sherlock decided to end things, he’d done so for a reason and known about the consequences. Meeting John again had thrown him off momentarily and prompted him to rely on John’s assets. He would not allow that kind of relapse again.

 

Sherlock finished tying his shoes and stood again. He went back into the kitchen, where a steaming cup of coffee was waiting for him.

 

~*~

 

_You forgot your bag in the cab. SH_

 

Sherlock was sure that if the cabbie hadn’t pointed it out, he would not have spotted John’s doctor’s bag on the vacated seat.

 

It was annoying and against Sherlock’s resolution to not see John again but he conceded that John would need the bag as soon as possible.

 

His phone chimed.

 

_John’s answer._

Sixteen months and thirty days since he last received a text from John. Sherlock slid the screen open to read the message.

 

**_I’ll be by Baker Street later to pick it up._ **

Sherlock set the phone aside and put on gloves. On his way out he took up a shovel and small bucket. Mrs Hudson’s garden awaited him.

 

~*~

 

It was after half three in the afternoon when the doorbell rang. Mrs Hudson answered and, going by her loud shriek, Sherlock knew it must be John. He could hear them talking but didn’t catch what was being said.

 

Mrs Hudson was probably scolding John for losing weight and deliberately not mentioning the cane.

 

A few minutes later, John was climbing up the stairs and stepping into what used to be _their_ flat.

 

Sherlock was busy with his experiment in the kitchen. He had already determined Mrs Hudson’s garden soil’s mineral composition and organic matter. Now he was halfway through testing the pH levels. As he was busy opening the tap of the burette, adding a known concentration of sodium hydroxide to the solution of the soil and a phenolphthalein indicator, he didn’t go out to greet John -  who knew his way around the place still and would find his bag on the coffee table without Sherlock’s help.

 

It was _not_ because _John with the cane_ looked wrong or that _John inside 221B_ would seem both out of place and familiar at the same time.

 

The doorbell rang again. They both ignored it. Mrs Hudson would get it, as usual.

 

“Thanks for picking it up,” John said quietly into the silence of the space between them.

 

Sherlock said nothing at all.

 

“Right, I should get going.” John made his way to the door but stopped abruptly.

 

There was a light knock at the half-opened door followed by someone coming in.

 

“Mr Holmes?” a man asked hesitantly.

 

“No,” John answered at the same time that Sherlock shouted, “In the kitchen.”

 

Sherlock dared a peak into the living room to quickly glance at the visitor. He was in his forties and smartly dressed. There was nothing remotely interesting about the man. _Client._

 

 “Do sit down if you must, and, in a moment, tell me what you want from me,” he said to his client and “If you’ll stay a few more minutes I’ll call a cab for you,” to John before turning back to his experiment to finish it.

 

“I can’t afford a cab. I’ll just go by tube,” John answered with an air of annoyance. _He wants to keep this as brief as possible._

 

“I’ll pay the fare. Just sit down a moment, rest your leg and, after I’ve dismissed the case this gentleman is going to propose, I’ll make sure you get home and won’t have to pay a penny.” Sherlock didn’t know why he offered. Possibly because it was the polite thing to do.

 

John glared at him but sat down - _chair by the table. Not the sofa or his armchair._ Sherlock decided to ignore that he still thought of the other armchair as John’s.

 

“Now,” he said turning to the man who was still hovering just inside the living room, “why do you want my help?”

 

The man cleared his throat and began to speak.

 

“My name is Joseph Openshaw. You were recommended to me by-”

 

Sherlock interrupted him with a dismissive gesture of his hand. “Not important. Tell me why you’re here,” he said, pointedly not looking at John who was, without a doubt, rolling his eyes or trying to not seem annoyed with Sherlock’s impoliteness.

 

Mr Openshaw only nodded in agreement. “My great-grandfather had two sons, twins actually, my great-uncle Elias and my grandfather Joseph. Grandfather Joseph died long ago, during the Second World War. My great-uncle Elias moved in with my father and me about twenty years ago. He was seventy-nine years old at the time. A few years later he received a letter in the mail. We were all sitting down for breakfast and my father and I could see it clearly: white envelope, Uncle’s name and address on the front, post stamp, no return address. When he opened the envelope, five orange pips and a small piece of paper fell out. My father and I didn’t know what to make of it but Uncle Elias seemed to know, because his face twisted in horror and revulsion. He gasped out some name that I didn’t catch and, grabbing the letter and its contents, fled to his room without giving any explanation.

 

“He came out the next day, mumbling to himself and clutching a box to his chest. I never found out what was in it.”

 

“Why?” John asked. Sherlock looked over to the table and caught a glimpse on surprise on John’s face before it reverted to quiet anger. _He got caught up and asked before he realised that we don’t work together anymore. Interesting._ Sherlock turned back to the client.

 

“Well two reasons, actually,” the client continued. “The first is that he burnt the box and all its content in the garden behind the house. The second reason is that two days later he was found dead in the same garden. Heart failure was the official cause of death.

 

“My father and I arranged the funeral and eventually moved on. Nothing happened for ten years. One morning my father received the same parcel that my great-uncle had gotten before: a simple white envelope with his name and address but no return address. When he opened it, again five orange pips fell out and a small note that only said, ‘The papers.’ We examined the envelope and found, on the inside, a small symbol, a circle that was split by what looked like a bolt of lightning. I still feel like I’ve seen it before but can’t quite place it.

 

“Since I knew that my great-uncle Elias had burnt the box and everything in it, my father and I decided to not do anything.

 

“Five days later my father was found dead on the front porch of our house.”

 

Sherlock put his hands together, fingers lightly touching his lips.

 

“You’ve received an envelope,” he stated, not without interest. He already had half a dozen theories about the specifics of the case. He would have to examine the envelope for himself before he could settle on two possible explanations. He stole a quick glance at John, who was leaning forward in the chair.

 

“Yes, I did. Six days ago. It’s the same again, five orange pips, a note and inside the symbol I described.”

 

“You brought it with you?” Sherlock asked. He hoped the man wasn’t too stupid.

 

“Of course.” Mr Openshaw reached inside his coat, drew out a simple white envelope and handed it to Sherlock.

 

It was addressed to his home in Horsham. _Obvious from the clay and chalk mixture on his toe caps._

 

The five orange pips were still inside. _Don’t touch, need to test them._

He picked out the note and read, ‘The box. Front porch.’ _Unimportant._ He put it back inside the envelope.

 

Sherlock found the symbol easily. A circle divided by a bolt of lightning, just as Openshaw had said. _Two theories then._

“I’ll take the case. Is there anything left from what your great-uncle burned?”

 

“Actually, there is. I found a stray piece of paper, burnt on the edges and rather small, in the garden the next day. There were numbers on it. I didn’t know what to make of it but took it to my room and I’ve kept it there since then. Is it important?” he asked curiously.

 

“No. Yes. Maybe. I’ll keep the envelope for now. Is there anyone at your house at the moment?”

 

“Yes, my wife should be back from work by now.”

 

“Good. Call her and tell her to put the piece of paper in a clear plastic folder with a note that says that nothing more of the box is left. After that go to the National Hospital on Queen Square and tell them that you’ve possibly come into contact with a neurotoxin and need immediate treatment.” Sherlock waved at him dismissively.

 

“Am I in danger, Mr Holmes?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

He offered Sherlock his hand and a thank you. Sherlock disregarded both and went back to the kitchen to dispose of the soil-phenolphthalein indicator-solution.

 

A few minutes after Openshaw had left, John cleared his throat.

 

“I guess I’ll be taking the tube after all,” he said with controlled calmness.

 

 _I said I’d get him a cab,_ Sherlock remembered.

 

“No need. We’ll go right now. There’s something I need to verify anyway,” Sherlock said, grabbing his coat before stashing the envelope in one of the inside pockets.

 

He looked expectantly at John, actually _looked_ at John for the first time since he had arrived.

_Wearing good clothes and shoes, just got off work before he came here. His shift probably ended at three. Is he still working in Harley Street then? Need more information._

 

John sighed and nodded, then made a gesture with his left hand for Sherlock to lead the way.

 

~*~

 

Sherlock expected that John would ask him to just pay the cab for the ride to Southwark so he could go home. Sherlock expected to just do that and be done with it. Instead, he had led the way and John had silently followed him into the lab at St. Bart’s. _The case interests him._

 

He was currently testing the pips for toxins as he was fairly certain that whoever had sent that envelope had poisoned the pips with something that could enter the blood stream via the pores on their fingers and cause a slow death but would dissolve after a while. Since the letter was sent a week ago, he needed to be quick to find out if his suspicion would be confirmed.

 

The Infrared spectroscope had shown peaks for Tertiary Amide, Phosphinate and Sulphite Bridge, and the structure suggested a nerve agent, so Sherlock decided to run them through the mass spectrometer as well. If the pip he was testing showed the right result he’d know he was correct.

 

“You followed me to the lab,” he said, eyebrows raised questioningly when the test entered the third phase.

 

“You’re paying for the cab that’s supposed to take me home,” John answered plainly. He was still standing, so his leg couldn’t have been bothering him that much today.

 

_He expected to meet me and mentally prepared for it._

 

“I could have paid the cabbie upfront,” Sherlock answered matter-of-factly.

 

“Well, you didn’t.” John’s expression became hard.

 

“You didn’t ask me to,” Sherlock replied almost flippantly – if Sherlock were anything like flippant.

 

“That would’ve been rude, wouldn’t it,” John snapped.

 

“You know I don’t care about social norms and niceties.”

 

“Don’t I?” John deadpanned. His expression gave nothing away about how he felt. It frustrated Sherlock to not be able to read John’s every emotion and thought from his face anymore.

 

A moment of awkward silence stretched between them and then Sherlock cleared his throat and motioned for John to come closer and look at the screen of the IR.

 

“Since you’re already here, you might want to take a look at these test results.” Sherlock stepped aside to make room for John.

 

He contemplated the images on the screen, the crease between his eyebrows becoming more prominent by the second.

 

“Looks like the neurotoxin you mentioned to Openshaw,” John said after a minute or two and Sherlock caught himself before he could’ve smiled appreciatively at John.

 

“Exactly. The mass spec will confirm whether it’s VX or not,” he said instead.

 

John nodded curtly. He had been in the military; he knew what VX, the poison they were dealing with here, could do to a person and how dangerous it was. Sherlock was glad he’d had the forethought to not touch the pips.

 

“Did you observe any symptoms on Mr Openshaw?” Sherlock asked John after a few moments.

 

“He seemed out of breath. At the time I thought it was because he was panicked. Now though, it might be a sign of the toxin working its way through his body,” John answered carefully while Sherlock nodded absentmindedly.

 

“Yes, that’s what I think. If it’s advanced enough to affect him physically, we’ll go directly to the NHNN and make sure they treated him accordingly,” Sherlock announced.

 

He would get out of the cab and pay the driver enough to take John back to Southwark.

 

A soft beep announced that the test was done. Sherlock and John moved in front of the screen.

 

 _267.37 gmol-1, just as I expected._ He glanced at John, who, from the look on his face, had come to the same conclusion.

 

Neither said a word while Sherlock grabbed his coat and dashed out of the lab, John closely following him.

 

~*~

 

They managed to grab a cab fairly quickly and were already on Boswell Street when Sherlock’s phone vibrated with a call.

 

He quickly looked at the screen before sliding it open to answer the call.

 

“Lestrade, what is it?”

 

 _“We found a body you’ll probably want to take a look at,”_ Lestrade said.

 

“Sorry, but there’s no time. I need to get to the NHNN and see Mr Openshaw about the neurotoxin that he accidentally was contaminated with,” Sherlock explained with more patience than he was feeling.

 

_“Did you just say Openshaw?”_

 

“Yes. Why? Do you know him?”

 

 _“You could say that.”_ Lestrade hesitated a moment before carrying on. _“Sherlock, we’ve found the body of Joseph Openshaw. Now will you look at it?”_

“Where are you?” Sherlock asked curtly.

 

_“In Euston Square Gardens, near the Tap.”_

 

Sherlock ended the call without saying another word and gave the cab driver the new destination.

 

“They found his body, didn’t they.”

 

_Clever John. Doesn’t even need to ask. He knows I wouldn’t change directions for any other reason._

Sherlock said nothing.

 

A few minutes later they arrived at the crime scene and Lestrade immediately waved them over to the body. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at John and opened his mouth to say something but John minutely shook his head and Lestrade kept silent. Instead he gestured toward the dead man lying on his front in a puddle only a few feet away from them.

 

“Has anyone touched the body without wearing gloves?” Sherlock asked.

 

Lestrade looked at him quizzically but answered nevertheless. “I don’t think so.”

 

“You don’t think so or you know so?” Sherlock not quite snapped but glared all the same.

 

“I know so. The body was reported about an hour ago by a pedestrian, the woman over there, and we got here forty minutes ago. Nobody has touched him without gloves. What’s going on, Sherlock? How do you know the man?”

 

Sherlock looked around. The park itself was unimpressive. Openshaw was lying on the grass, a few feet from the path under a tree.

 

“He came to Baker Street this afternoon to ask me for help after he’d received a threat in the mail. His father and great-uncle died after receiving the same kind of parcel and naturally he was worried. I sent him home with clear instructions on what to do next. I had reason to believe that he’d been contaminated with a deadly neurotoxin.

 

“After he was gone, we went to the lab to verify my suspicion and were on our way to him when you called with the news of his death. He probably didn’t take a cab due to money issues or because he wanted fresh air. He would have felt nauseous and light headed. I suspect he then went to lean against the tree, collapsed and shortly afterwards his heart stopped. I didn’t think he would disregard the urgency and walk to the hospital,” Sherlock explained coolly. It wouldn’t do anyone any good to be emotional about it. Sherlock could have explained the situation better to his client but he hadn’t believed it necessary as long as Openshaw followed Sherlock’s instructions.

 

“Who was threatening him?” Lestrade asked.

 

“Former members of the British Union of Fascists were trying to regain paperwork from his great-uncle who, instead of handing it over and receiving the antidote, burnt everything and died shortly afterwards from the same poison that killed Mr Openshaw. His father received the same message and didn’t know what it meant and thus died without a clue as to why or how. Joseph Openshaw received an envelope six days ago that bore the seal of the British Union of Fascists which he failed to recognise.”

 

“There is no way to find the killers, is there?” Lestrade sighed.

 

“No,” Sherlock answered curtly. “You could probably dust the envelope and note inside for fingerprints and run them through the database but I doubt you’ll find anything.” Sherlock handed over the envelope to the DI. “Just be careful to not touch the remaining orange pips.”

 

Lestrade nodded and took the envelope from Sherlock. For a moment he looked like he wanted to say something else. Instead he slightly shook his head and dismissed them both.

 

John and Sherlock made their way back to Euston Road in silence. Sherlock was going over the case again; it felt like he had missed something more than a clue about who the killer was, but couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

 

“Sherlock!” John said urgently and Sherlock jerked his head up to look at John.

 

“What?” He felt slightly dizzy from the sudden movement but he could still make out John looking worriedly at him.

 

“You’re sweating and your pupils are tiny. Are you feeling dizzy or nauseated?” John sounded anxious.

 

“Bit dizzy,” Sherlock answered carefully. Then it hit him. _Stupid, stupid, stupid! Not the pips but the note! Need to tell Lestrade._

 

“The symptoms are still mild but let’s get you to the hospital right now before you end up like Openshaw back there.”  Of course John knew what was going on. He was a doctor _and_ a soldier after all.

 

They caught a cab only a moment later and John pushed Sherlock inside before giving the driver orders to get them to the National Hospital.

 

Once seated Sherlock took out his phone and texted Lestrade.

 

_Keep away from the note. It carries the toxin & only rubbed off on the pips. SH_

With a satisfied nod of his head, he slipped the phone back into his pocket and leaned back into the seat, concentrating hard on staying awake.

 

~*~

 

It was nearing midnight when Sherlock woke up again. He was lying in a hospital bed in a private room and was hooked up to an IV that was used to force feed him nutritious substances. At least that would take care of having to eat in the near future.

 

They’d gone to the hospital’s casualty department and explained the situation. Sherlock had been taken away to have his skin scrubbed and clothes cleaned, then they’d injected him with Atropine, Pralidoxime and Diazepam to flush out the VX. He had fallen asleep shortly after, but that was expected after being injected with a sedative.

 

Sherlock didn’t know when John had left. Was it right after they started treatment or did he wait to find out if they would tell him anything about Sherlock’s condition?

 

John probably _had_ waited. He might still be angry with Sherlock but he would have felt obligated to try to find out whether he was all right.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes even though he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again.

 

**_October 2015_ **

 

_It was one of the rare occasions when they actually got ready for bed at the same time. Often enough Sherlock would stay up late into the night or early morning hours while John was responsible enough to go to bed at a decent hour to be awake and ready for work the next day._

 

_However, the day had been long and exhausting, even by Sherlock’s standards, and all he wanted to do was go to bed and sleep for a few hours, preferably using John as a pillow._

_“Sherlock, what happened to your back?” John sounded worried and surprised. He had discovered the bruise on Sherlock’s back that was just starting to bloom into a deep purple._

_“I had a disagreement with a criminal subject.” It was all Sherlock was willing to offer. He’d rather not discuss the run-in he had had with one of his former drug dealers._

_“A rather physical disagreement judging by the colour and shape of the bruise.” John stepped closer and was gently fingering the edges of the bruise, discovering the small scratches as well._

_“What happened?” he asked, carefully keeping the anger he surely felt out of his voice. Sherlock knew that John hated it when he went off to solve possibly dangerous crimes without him – and not just because John naturally gravitated towards danger._

_“I met an old acquaintance who is under the impression that I owe him money, favours and ... services for the goods he used to provide to me. Needless to say that I was of different opinion.” Sherlock tried to keep it as neutral and unobtrusive as possible, deliberately leaving out the part where he was shoved rather violently against the rail of the footpath. Of course John wasn’t satisfied with that kind of answer._

_“What kind of goods?” John asked on his way to the bathroom. Sherlock knew he meant to give him a moment to contemplate his reply, though John probably already knew the answer. A moment later he returned with gauze and the small jar of antiseptic ointment they kept in the bathroom for exactly these kinds of injuries._

_“The kind that would make Lestrade’s drugs busts necessary,” Sherlock said tight-lipped while John slowly applied balm to the scratches and carefully dressed them. His hands stopped for only a fraction of a second before he kept going._

_Sherlock knew that John wanted to shout at him for being mad enough to take drugs in the first place. He’d probably fended off any thought about what kind of favours and services Sherlock would have been willing to provide in order to obtain cocaine and heroin. Yet he didn’t say a word and finished his work on Sherlock’s back silently._

_“You can put on your t-shirt now,” John said when he was done. He went back to the bathroom to put the jar back into their medicine cabinet and wash his hands. When he came back to their bedroom, Sherlock was already in bed, lying on his back, waiting for John to join him._

_John finished changing into his pyjamas. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed that John had been shirtless all this time. John probably hadn’t either._

_When they were both in bed, lights out and lying side by side, John finally spoke again._

_“I won’t berate you for the drugs; it’s too late for that now. You’ve been clean for years and far as I know not in need of that kind of ... distraction anymore. But I want you to tell Lestrade about that guy, his name, what he looks like, where to find him. I want him to never threaten you ever again and I want to make sure that one of your old sources is dry for good.”_

_His voice was steady and commanding. John had slipped into Captain-Watson-mode and Sherlock wouldn’t even dream of disobeying him right now._

_“Have I made myself clear?” John asked, voice low and bordering on dangerous. Sherlock only realised now that he hadn’t responded to John’s  demand._

_“Yes. Lestrade will hear about it first thing in the morning,” Sherlock murmured._

_“Good.”_

_Sherlock felt John’s hand lightly caressing his cheek and turned his head towards John._

_His eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough to make out John’s features. John looked worried but also relieved._

_He moved his head slightly forward and brushed his lips against John’s._

_They kissed for a moment before John let go of Sherlock’s face with a last brush of knuckles against cheekbone._

_“Next time take me with you when you accidentally meet old friends of yours,” John said quietly and Sherlock nodded._

_For a few more minutes they silently lay next to each other. Then both turned on their sides, and Sherlock tucked one of his legs between John’s and resting a hand possessively on John’s hip. Sleep did sound like a good idea right about now._

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he was back in the hospital room at the NHNN. He felt cold and too awake, his mind racing with memories of John and the nights they spent wrapped around each other.

 

He decidedly ignored the soft twinge he felt at remembering the warmth and comfort John always provided whether Sherlock wanted them or dismissed it as unnecessary distractions, and set his mind to reciting pi and prime numbers for as long as it would take to successfully take his mind off thinking about unpleasant things.

 

 

~*~

 

They discharged him in the morning and by the time Sherlock left the hospital, he was bored out of his mind and in an extremely bad mood.

 

As soon as he got home he picked up his violin and started plucking at the instrument and mercilessly scraping the bow against the strings. The violin screeched and whined as if in pain.

 

He had taken John with him on another case. Why had he done that?

 

Sherlock had fully intended to get out at Bart’s and pay the cabbie to take John to Southwark. Instead John had followed him out of the cab and into the lab with only a moment’s hesitation.

 

Still, the limp irritated Sherlock even now and John had seemed distant and too detached. In the past he would have been more worried about the results of the test at Bart’s and he would have shown more compassion for the victim. He certainly would have fussed more about Sherlock in the hospital, probably even demanded to be allowed to stay by his side until he woke up.

 

The absence of all the things that made John _John_ nagged at Sherlock’s mind and he didn’t know how to interpret the feelings of concern.

 

He shouldn’t be worried about John anymore. They’d broken up and parted ways long ago and Sherlock had carried on with his life, as had John. Almost a year and a half was more than enough time for either of them to get past their relationship. Sherlock certainly had gotten over his former attachment soon enough.

 

Sherlock set out to torture his Stradivarius more mercilessly. It was all he was capable of doing at the moment. Experiments and deductions needed precision and finesse. He was not in the right mind space for either of those things, and the task of butchering every sound that his violin could produce didn’t require anything other than agitation.

 

When he noticed footsteps on the stairs, he must have been abusing the strings for hours already. The light outside looked like late afternoon. Mrs Hudson had probably tried to get him to stop a few times already. He didn’t recall her coming in at all, which was likely to be the reason why Lestrade was now standing in Sherlock’s living room.

 

Sherlock went on for a few more minutes before he finally set the instrument down. He would have to change the violin strings and bow hair before he could play properly again.

 

“Mrs Hudson wants me to arrest you for disturbing the peace of the entire street. I have half a mind to lock you up simply for tormenting that poor instrument alone.” Lestrade didn’t sound as annoyed as he wanted to appear.

 

However, Sherlock was determined to stay silent. Playing hadn’t helped his problem at all. The only conclusion he had come to was that he needed to meet John again to gather more information.

 

“Somehow I don’t think it would help you to spend the night in a cell, so I’m asking you: do I need to take the violin away from you, or are you done taking your bad mood out on it now?” There was almost a hint of amusement in Lestrade’s voice. Sherlock shot him a glare that only managed to make Lestrade grin in earnest.

 

They stood in silence for a moment and Sherlock had almost forgotten that Lestrade was still there when the DI cleared his throat.

 

“Has this got anything to do with John?” he asked softly.

 

Sherlock’s head jerked up to stare at Lestrade. _How does he know? Did John say something to him? Are they still going for drinks? Does he know how John is?_

 

“What do you know?” Sherlock snapped.

 

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose. “Know about what?”

 

“John,” Sherlock answered as calmly as he could manage.

 

“Nothing. This is the first time I’ve seen him since your ... uh, since the year before last.” Lestrade looked uncomfortable, like he’d said too much. But that wasn’t true. He hadn’t said anything. Nothing that would help Sherlock.

 

“Then why are you asking me if this has anything to do with John?” Sherlock was confused but trying to hide it. He wasn’t sure how well he did but Lestrade relaxed, so he must have accomplished a calm enough tone.

 

“Well, you broke up rather ... abruptly and then he moved out and suddenly you two show up at a crime scene together over a year later. Given that you claim to be a sociopath, you might not know about things like that, but usually it’s confusing and messy to meet an ex and it’s a bit strange to suddenly be working with them again. Unless you two have been meeting and secretly reconciled without anyone noticing? But, since you were abusing your violin for most of the day, I think neither of you actually planned on ever seeing each other again.”

 

“I’m not claiming to be a sociopath. I was diagnosed over thirty years ago.”

 

“Not the point I was trying to make, Sherlock.” Lestrade rolled his eyes at him.

 

“Then what _is_ your point, Lestrade?”

 

“All the evidence tells me that you still have feelings for John even though you’ve convinced yourself that you don’t – or, knowing you, you thought you didn’t have any feelings for him in the first place.” The answer came quietly and slowly, as if Lestrade was explaining something complicated to a child and trying his best to use simple words so that they would understand at least bits and pieces.

 

When Sherlock looked up again, it was dark outside and Lestrade was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**_June 2015_ **

_John woke to the sensation of someone nibbling on his ear lobe._

Not someone. Sherlock _, he thought, humming appreciatively as he slowly opened his eyes._

_Sherlock was nestled against John’s back, his hand curled around John’s waist and his leg tugged between John’s knees._ Definitely not a bad way to wake up.

_“Morning,” John mumbled sleepily while reaching back a hand to Sherlock’s thigh and squeezing it encouragingly._

_Moments later Sherlock’s hand on John’s hip starts to wander, skimming his stomach and thighs before settling on John’s already half-hard cock._

_John gave a little moan and tried to roll on his back. Sherlock immediately made room for him and then settled back down between John’s legs, both hands on John’s cock now and stroking up his shaft, twisting his hand and rubbing over the head before gliding back down. John moaned._ So, he’s read about a new technique again.

_Since they’d got together three weeks ago, Sherlock frequently researched new ways for them to have sex. Of course John was always eager to assist in the resulting experiments._

_His train of thought was interrupted when Sherlock continued to stroke his cock, going a little faster and applying more pressure than before. John closed his eyes again because the look on Sherlock’s face could only be described as hungry and if John kept watching him or his hands any longer he would come right the fuck now and he would definitely rather enjoy the sensation a bit longer. Of course Sherlock was an evil bastard and chose that moment to bend down and suck him into his mouth._

 

 _John’s hips twitched upwards. “Christ! Oh God, yes … Oh,_ Sherlock _!”_

 

_Sherlock licked John’s cock, fondling his balls with one hand and stroking down to his hole with the other. John tangled a hand in Sherlock’s hair and tried hard not to push up into the hot, wet mouth engulfing him. But then Sherlock hummed low in his throat, the vibrations sending John right over the edge, his grip tightening in Sherlock’s hair to prevent him from pulling away too soon._

_The moment he let go, Sherlock moved back up John’s body and stretched out on top of him, his erection pressed tightly against John’s abdomen._

_John raised his head to kiss Sherlock and reached for the lube, but had it taken from his hands before he could do more than open the cap._

_“I’m going to finger you until you’re hard again and only then will I fuck you,” Sherlock whispered against John’s mouth, and John immediately wished his refractory period was less than thirty minutes._

 

_Sherlock rolled off John and motioned for him to turn onto his belly. John obliged immediately and felt Sherlock settle back down on top of him a moment later. He was nipping at John’s neck and stroking down his arms, taking John’s hands and bringing them up to hold on to the headboard._

_“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” Sherlock purred and a shiver ran down John’s spine. He loved Sherlock’s voice. He was fairly certain Sherlock could bring him off simply by telling him all the things he could_ _do to John._

_Sherlock shifted and nudged John’s legs apart. He knelt between them and began kissing and licking down John’s back. When he reached the swell of John’s arse, he sat back and kneaded the cheeks before parting them. John could feel Sherlock scooting further down the bed._

 

_“Oh God,” John groaned, all his nerve endings seemingly on fire when Sherlock tentatively started licking around John’s hole, every now and then nipping his buttocks but always coming back to place more kisses and licks around the opening._

_John’s knuckles were already going white from gripping the headboard. When Sherlock eventually dipped his tongue inside, John jerked violently and slammed the board against the wall._

_“If you break the bed you’ll be the one to buy us a new one,” Sherlock said lowly and John wanted nothing more than for him to shut up and get back to what he’d been doing before. He almost told Sherlock as much but Sherlock already bent back down and licked around his hole again, dipping inside every now and then before thrusting in as far as possible and wriggling his tongue._

_John wished he were allowed to move as he was barely able to stop himself from pushing back into Sherlock’s face. He contented himself with biting the pillow to prevent any pleading or whimpering sounds he surely would produce otherwise._

_An eternity later Sherlock finally eased off and got up to kneel between John’s legs again. He squeezed more lube onto his hands and John felt it dribble onto his buttocks. Sherlock dragged a finger through the cool liquid and brought it down to John’s entrance._

_“Think I can begin with two fingers right away?” Sherlock asked huskily. John didn’t trust his own voice enough to form intelligible words and nodded into the pillow the moment two of Sherlock’s fingers breached him._

_John moaned loudly at the intrusion and pushed back into the contact involuntarily._

 

_Sherlock immediately withdrew his fingers and slapped John’s arse. John whimpered._

_“I said you weren’t allowed to move until I told you to,” Sherlock said, not sounding angry at all. He bent down over John’s back and nipped at his left earlobe. “Will you hold still now?” he murmured against John’s ear and John nodded again. “Say it,” Sherlock demanded._

_John drew in a sharp breath. “I won’t move until you tell me to,” he confirmed shakily and Sherlock bit his earlobe again. “Good.”_

_Sherlock pushed back in with three fingers, sending a pleasant shudder along John’s spine and straight to his cock. He could feel himself grow hard again. Soon this position would become uncomfortable, but for now he was going to concentrate on the feeling of Sherlock’s fingers inside him and “Oh God, please do that again.” John’s hips bucked involuntarily as white hot pleasure ran through his entire body._

_Sherlock’s other hand landed on his buttocks once more, the slap causing John to cry out. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled and Sherlock slapped him a second time before moving his fingers again._

_When he could move four fingers easily in and out of John, he told him to turn on his side._

_John’s face was flushed and his cock was completely hard again, still damp where it hadn’t rubbed against the sheet. A moment later Sherlock’s chest pressed up against John’s back as his cock rubbed against his bum. John moaned and rocked back against Sherlock, to urge him on._

_Sherlock drew back a fraction and John got the message: No moving._

_“Please, Sherlock, need you inside me.”_

_Sherlock kissed John’s neck soothingly and John let himself be distracted. A few seconds later John could feel the head of Sherlock’s cock slowly pushing inside. He barely suppressed a sob of relief._

Finally.

_John would have liked for Sherlock to move faster and harder but Sherlock had promised a slow fuck and Sherlock usually kept his promises – at least the ones he’d meant at the time he’d made them._

_Inch by inch Sherlock was pushing in, stilling when he was completely inside. He flicked a thumb over John’s left nipple, pulling out just as slowly until only the head of his cock was still inside John._

 

_John clenched his muscles around Sherlock’s cock, hoping to provoke him into shoving back in but it only resulted in a sharp pinch to his nipple. John gasped, Sherlock smirked and only then did he push back inside._

_Sherlock kept up his slow pace for a few more minutes, toying with John’s nipples as much as possible, sometimes even deigning to graze John’s cock._

_“Please, oh, Sherlock please,” John moaned. If Sherlock didn’t pick up his pace and fuck John properly, he was going to go insane from the overload._

_Sherlock smirked again. “All you have to do is ask, John,” he replied smoothly, dragging his thumb over the head of John’s cock._

_John clawed at the sheets looking for purchase and trying to calm down enough to speak again. A few moments of deep breathing later he finally managed to control his voice._

_“Please, Sherlock, fuck me.”_

_“I_ am _fucking you,” Sherlock said in the tone of voice he used to point out_ Obvious! _at a crime scene._

 

_“No, I mean, fuck me hard and – oh god!” Another brush against his prostate. “Hard and fast.” John managed to finish the sentence._

_Sherlock let John’s leg down and pushed him onto his stomach. He bit John’s shoulder, making him cry out, then drawing back far enough to whisper in John’s ear, “As you wish.”_

_He gripped John’s hips hard enough to leave bruises, lifting them off the mattress, and pulled out almost completely again. This time he shoved back in, beginning a fast rhythm that had John moaning uncontrollably. It only took a few quick strokes with his hand before John came again, spilling on the sheets._

_Sherlock thrust a few more times, moaning breathlessly and calling John’s name in a hushed voice before spilling deep inside John._

_They were panting heavily and Sherlock bent back down to kiss John’s shoulder again, soothing the teeth marks he left. A moment later he carefully eased out of John and fell down next to him._

_John was already drifting off back to sleep when Sherlock’s phone chimed. Sherlock immediately reached for it on the nightstand and read the text._

_“Case?” John asked sleepily. He’d rather spend the rest of the morning of his day off in bed, maybe sleep some more and have another go later on. But if Lestrade wanted their presence at a crime scene, Sherlock would go and John would, of course, follow._

_“Possibly,” Sherlock replied, already getting out of bed and looking around for his trousers._

_“We should shower first,” John suggested drowsily. He would get up. Eventually._

_“You’re right, we should. Come along then,” Sherlock called, already disappearing into the bathroom._

_John made a non-committal sound, already half asleep again._

_“John?” Sherlock called again, shower already running. John ignored him._

_“John.” Louder this time, and more demanding. John fought his way back to wakefulness and was about to get up, when Sherlock called again. “John!” Why did he always have to be so damn impatient?_

 

“John Hamish Watson.”

 

John jerked out of his daydream and looked up.

 

“What?” he asked, blinking at his girlfriend dazedly.

 

“Must’ve been a good train of thought you’ve been entertaining there. I’ve been trying to get your attention for at least ten minutes now,” she scolded, though not actually sounding cross.

 

“Sorry,” John said, faintly blushing. It was more than just a little impolite to think about the fantastic sex he’d had with his ex whilst having breakfast in his current girlfriend’s kitchen.

 

“It’s alright. I just wanted to say goodbye. Not everybody can afford to stay home every other Thursday. Some people actually have to work.” She smiled and leaned down to peck him on the cheek. “Dinner tonight?” she asked on her way to the front door.

 

“Sure, I’ll pick you up from work. Six?” he called after her.

 

“Make it seven. See you later.” The door clicked shut a moment later.

 

John turned his attention back to his half eaten breakfast. The tea was cold and his toast already starting to get a bit soggy from the strawberry jam. It was probably better to make himself presentable and go back to his place anyway. He had a bit of paperwork to do and he intended to look for a different job again.

 

The last week had accomplished nothing more than to remind him of all the things he couldn’t have anymore but still desperately wanted. Before the run-in with Sherlock at the pub John hadn’t let himself think about Sherlock much, but definitely had not allowed himself to dwell on the relationship and breakup.

 

_...So you really don’t love me at all..._

 

He needed to regain the distance he already had had established between them. Maybe even add some more, which meant that he would have to find another job in another part of the city that was as far away from Baker Street as possible.

 

His phone announced a new text. John ignored it. Instead he cleared the table and got properly dressed.

 

In front of the apartment building he eventually took out his phone and looked at the text.

 

_Assistance required at Baker Street immediately. Cab has been sent to your place. SH_

John stared at his phone. Sherlock was asking for his help. Why was Sherlock asking for his help? Sherlock and he weren’t in a place where they asked each other for anything. Their accidental meeting was just that. No matter that John had got himself dragged along on two different cases in less than twenty-four hours.

 

He wanted to finally get over Sherlock and maybe build something with his new girlfriend. Going back to running after Sherlock for cases was not going to help him with that. All the feelings would resurface and he would be miserable again. Not to mention how all his relationships had gone before he and Sherlock had gotten together.

 

John was going to simply say no. However, he knew Sherlock would show up at his flat. Or maybe he was waiting in the cab for John to return.

**_I’m not at my place, yet._ **

 

John started walking towards the train station but didn’t get far before his phone buzzed again.

_Why? It’s your day off. SH_

He rolled his eyes. He should have known that Sherlock would not leave it alone. However, John was not in the mood to give Sherlock any kind of useful information.

**_Spent the night elsewhere._ **

A second later a new text arrived.

_Where are you? SH_

John thought a moment about telling Sherlock. He didn’t doubt that Sherlock only asked to gain more information to figure out who John had spent the night with.

**_Kensington._ **

John started walking again. He had almost reached the train station, when his phone vibrated with Sherlock’s reply.

_Stay there, cab will arrive shortly. SH_

 

His attempt to distract Sherlock long enough to make him temporarily forget about picking up John had failed. Now he _had_ to say no.

 

**_I never said I was coming._ **

****

There, John could be stubborn too. And he’d rather go to his flat and spend the day job hunting than running after Sherlock.

_It’s a medical emergency. Need complete address. SH_

John sighed. In all the years they‘d known each other Sherlock hadn’t once lied about a medical emergency. He would text John to come home immediately because there was something urgent that needed his immediate attendance and it would always turn out to be something like, ‘Fetch me my laptop,’ or ‘Look up that address.’ However, when Sherlock said ‘medical emergency’ then he actually meant ‘medical emergency’ and nothing less. A short spasm ran through his leg when he texted back.

 

**_I should go by my place first and get my bag. I’ll be there in an hour._ **

****

That would give him some time to mentally prepare and take a pain killer or two.

 

_I have the necessary tools here and the patient needs immediate treatment. Where should I send the cab? SH_

There was nothing left for John to do. He couldn’t say no if there actually was an emergency. Someone could be bleeding to death. _Sherlock_ could be bleeding to death. Or Mrs Hudson.

 

**_Kensington station near Holland Road._ **

Sherlock’s reply arrived within seconds.

 

_Cab will be there in ten minutes. SH_

John put away his phone and searched his pockets and wallet for pain killers but couldn’t find any.  Sighing for what felt like the millionth time this morning, he resigned himself to a long day.

 

~*~

 

Mrs Hudson was overjoyed to see him again so soon. John supposed she must have missed his positive influence on Sherlock’s good behaviour over the last seventeen months and possibly his occasional company for afternoon tea too.

 

“Oh, my dear John, I’m so glad you’re here. You wouldn’t believe how badly he’s been abusing his violin ever since he got out of the hospital! And now finally a client came to see him and Sherlock’s been pacing up and down in the living room ever since.” She was still holding his hand and not giving John any chance to excuse himself and go upstairs.

 

“Mrs Hudson, stop complaining about me and let him up already,” Sherlock shouted from upstairs. Mrs Hudson rolled her eyes and John smiled at her for a short moment, squeezing her hand in his.

 

“Thank you Mrs Hudson. Maybe we can make arrangements for tea sometime, when you’ve got the place to yourself.”

 

She nodded at him, repressing the sad look on her face as best she could, but John saw it anyway.  He knew that she too was still upset about their breakup.

 

_...I told you I don’t fall in love with anyone..._

He turned away from her and started climbing the stairs. Seventeen months ago he would’ve bounded upstairs, taking two steps at once, easily avoiding the few creaking ones. Now he was forced to take them one at a time, every groan of wood announcing his ascent to Sherlock, the clonking noise of his cane too loud in the narrow staircase.

 

It was a testament to on how dependant John had become on Sherlock. The first evening they spent together, Sherlock cured him of his psychosomatic pain, only to bring it back a year and a half later when he faked his death and disappeared for over three years.

 

John still remembered that day in August when he came home from another seemingly pointless day at work to find Sherlock sitting in his chair. John thought he’d finally gone round the bend and started laughing. It was only when Sherlock got up and touched his arm that John realised that he was actually there. His first instinct was to either punch Sherlock or lock him in a crushing hug. He did both, smearing blood from Sherlock’s split lip against his shirt where Sherlock’s face was buried against John’s shoulder.

 

The limp had gone almost instantly and hadn’t even flared up once. Until That Day.

 

John was standing in front of the door to the apartment, collecting himself before knocking at the door and entering without waiting for an answer.

 

Sherlock stopped mid-stride and stood near their – _his_ – chairs. “Hello, John.”

 

“Hello, Sherlock. You said there was a medical emergency?” John wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. Best to get to the point quickly before Sherlock got any chance to enlighten them with his deductions about where John had spent the night and why.

 

“Yes, Mr Hatherley over there will need you to attend to his left hand,” Sherlock answered coldly, resuming his pacing.

 

John turned toward the sofa where a young man in his mid-twenties was lying down, holding up his left hand into the air and covering it with his right. John could make out a bloodied gauze pad beneath his fingers and a few more strewn onto the coffee table.

 

 _Sherlock definitely should set up biohazard trash bins in every room of the flat if he’s going to keep A &E patients in the apartment, _John thought.

 

He took off his jacket and sat down next to the young man.

 

“Sherlock, I need gloves, a washcloth, lukewarm water, disinfectant and a trash bin,” John called over his shoulder. Sherlock changed direction and go into the kitchen to gather supplies.

 

 “Hi, I’m Dr John Watson. Would you mind showing me what you’ve got there?” he said, gesturing towards the man’s hands.

 

Mr Hatherley nodded at him and slowly let go of his hand. “My name is Vincent,” he said shakily.

 

“Hello, Vincent. Don’t worry; you’re going to be fine.”

 

A moment later Sherlock set down several things on the coffee table. John picked up a pair of gloves and carefully started to peel away the gauze covering Hatherley’s hand.

 

Before John was done, Vincent took a deep breath and said, “They cut off my thumb.” John stilled for a second before returning to his task.

 

“Would you like to tell me how that happened?” he asked.

 

Vincent nodded again. “I work in IT. I run a small business helping people fix their computers, no matter whether it’s a hardware or software problem. Whoever’s got a buggy programme or a virus or just needs a new keyboard, they come to me and I help them.”

 

He winced when John carefully cleaned off the blood from around the wound with a damp washcloth.

 

“Sorry, but I don’t have any pain killers on me,” John said to Vincent but looked questioningly in Sherlock’s direction, who only shook his head. John figured that Sherlock probably had some but wasn’t going to share with someone who instead on bothering Sherlock with his neatly sliced off thumb instead of going to the hospital.

 

John looked back at Vincent. “Go on. How does an upstanding citizen get himself into enough trouble to have his thumb cut off?”

 

Vincent seemed to have decided that he was better off not looking at his hand and closed his eyes. “A week ago a guy walked into my office and asked me all kinds of questions: how one repairs a machine that was run by computers or how to get a programme working again when it keeps on freezing. Without any specific information, there wasn’t much I could do. I told him that in order to properly solve his problems I would have to look at the machine and programme.”

 

Hatherley went quiet for a moment and John took the opportunity to ask Sherlock for more supplies. “You said you had everything I needed.”

 

“I do,” Sherlock replied calmly.

 

“Well, then get me some painkillers, another pair of gloves and more gauze,” John commanded, taking off the bloodied gloves and throwing them in the bin that Sherlock had set down next to the sofa.

 

For a moment Sherlock looked like he was going to protest but apparently decided that it wouldn’t be wise to argue with John in this moment. John wondered why Sherlock didn’t have any of the things ready before John arrived. If he knew that he had all the supplies that John would need, why not set them out so John could start working without any delay?

 

 _Maybe he wants to stall for time,_ John’s treacherous thoughts supplied, as if Sherlock wanted to keep John around any longer than John wanted to stay. Vincent obviously didn’t want to go to the hospital for whatever reason and John was probably the only one Sherlock trusted to treat an A &E patient in a private living room.

 

Not for the first time John wondered about how far he was willing to bend the rules for Sherlock, even though, technically, he was only applying first aid. He shook his head minutely; it was no use thinking about it now.

 

Sherlock returned to the living room with everything John had asked for.

 

John looked back at Vincent who had opened his eyes at some point. John smiled reassuringly. “Okay, this is going to hurt a lot and you’ll still need to go to the hospital as soon as possible.”

 

Vincent shook his head. “I can’t go to the hospital. Nobody’s going to believe my story!”

 

“You can finish telling us and then we will take you to the hospital. They will ask you what happened but not in detail, just what they need to know to treat the wound. But now I’m wondering, Vincent, is this a case for the police?” John asked. It _was_ suspicious that Vincent didn’t want to go to any officials. However, John had sworn an oath to help anyone who needed him and that was what he was going to do.

 

“Alright, take those.” John handed him two pain killers and a glass of water. “This is going to hurt, even after the pain medication kicks in. Which is another reason why you need to get to a hospital. For now I’m going to dress your wound with as much pressure as you can stand to still the bleeding and keep the wound from tearing. You will have to keep holding up your hand too after I’m done. Ready?”

 

Vincent shook his head. John took the glass from him and sat it down on the table, then looked back at Vincent with his eyebrows raised.

 

This time Vincent nodded and John put on a new pair of gloves. He picked up gauze and a bandage and started wrapping the hand. Vincent bit his lip, digging his right hand into the sofa cushion.

 

“Sherlock, get him something to bite down on,” John called. A moment later Sherlock held a fresh pair of socks in front of Vincent’s face. Vincent looked doubtful but bit down on the fabric when John nodded encouragingly.

 

“We’re almost done,” John tried to soothe while working steadily.

 

A few minutes later he held his hand out, looking up at Sherlock who stared back at him. John gulped before he felt that he was able to speak. “Tape, Sherlock. I can’t hold the bandage in place and rip off a piece of tape at the same time.”

 

Sherlock moved from behind Vincent’s head to John’s side, ripping off a bit of tape and handing it over to John. “Do you need another one?” Sherlock asked lowly. John only nodded, not trusting his voice right now.

 

When the bandage was done, John gently removed the pair of socks from Vincent’s mouth. Vincent had become even paler and was breathing heavily.

 

“Do you feel up to telling us the rest of the story or would you rather we got you to the hospital right away?” John asked after he was sure that his voice was steady again.

 

“Story,” Vincent croaked. John handed him the glass of water once more.

 

Sherlock had moved over to the fireplace and John turned sideways to look at him. He discreetly held up a hand in the universally known sign for a phone call. Sherlock nodded minutely before pulling his phone out of his pocket to send a text.

 

John turned back to Vincent. “Alright, go on then,” he prompted, taking the glass and setting it back on the table.

 

Hatherley took a deep breath, then continued his story. “The guy was uncertain but eventually gave me an address in Dagenham. He said I should come on the next Wednesday. So yesterday I went, took me bloody ages too. Turned out to be a warehouse near the river. Course I wasn’t given the address to the warehouse itself. The man who’d been in my office picked me up at Dagenham Dock train station. They blindfolded me so I wouldn’t be able to make out where exactly we went.

 

“When I was shown into the office where they’d stationed their server, I could tell that they’d done something to the computer. It looked like they were desperate to hide something. I asked about the machine but they said they’d get someone else to look at it.

 

“The whole thing seemed strange. I tried fixing the computer as best as I could, trying to finish work as fast as possible to get out of there. I was going to call the police as soon as I got home but then they left the door open and I caught a glimpse at a machine. When they saw that I noticed what they were doing they started chasing me.

 

“I managed to run away but I stumbled and fell. The guy who hired me came after me with a butcher’s knife – an actual butcher’s knife! He was about to stab me but I rolled away and so he only caught my thumb. It hurt like crazy but I knew I’d have to get up and keep running or he’d slice me up like a bit of pork.

 

“When I got out I was going to run as far as possible, maybe find someone else and let them call an ambulance. I think I must’ve fainted before I got too far because suddenly everything went blurry and then black. When I woke up, I felt hung-over and it was Thursday. I wasn’t far from where I’d fallen; only now I was hidden by bushes. I don’t know who carried me there but it must’ve been the people from inside the warehouse. I have no clue why they let me live, maybe didn’t want to add murder to their crimes.

 

“I went back to the warehouse to confirm its location but couldn’t find it anywhere.” With a shuddering breath, Vincent went silent.

 

John kept his face blank and gave the glass of water back to Vincent, before shooting a look in Sherlock’s direction.

 

Sherlock had assumed his usual thinking pose: sitting in his chair, hands prayer-like beneath his chin, long legs stretched out in front of him. John forced himself to not look longer than it took to confirm that Sherlock, too, thought that the story wasn’t adding up.

 

Even if Vincent couldn’t find the warehouse again, he still should’ve called an ambulance to get his thumb treated. Or called the police. And even if he thought that it would be best to immediately go to Scotland Yard and therefore came back to the city, how did he end up here?

 

“Say, Vincent,” John started, “Why did you come here?” He was careful to keep any hint of suspicion out of his voice. If Vincent was a criminal it wouldn’t do any good to scare him off now after John had already gone through all the effort of properly dressing the wound.

 

“I read Mr Holmes’ website. I figured that he would be able to help me find the warehouse again so that I could lead the police there,” Vincent answered, holding out the empty glass to John.

 

He took it and held it out for Sherlock to pick up and refill. Of course Sherlock was ignoring him, so John eventually put it back on the coffee table. Sherlock’s assistance ended as soon as the patient was out of mortal danger. _As if he’d ever_ been _in mortal danger,_ John thought. A severed thumb was messy and unpleasant but not something one usually died of.

 

“But why not go to the hospital at least? They could’ve fixed your thumb and then you could’ve come here,” John replied. He did his best to not think about the trouble he could’ve been saved if the guy had gone to the A&E first.

 

“I wanted to get Mr Holmes on the case as fast as possible. I needed to explain before going to the hospital. They’re going to keep me there for most of the day, if not longer. As it is the people working in that warehouse might be gone already.” Vincent spoke faster and louder than before, gesturing with his hands. Whether he was only a victim or involved with the crime in some way, it wouldn’t do anyone any good if he fainted on their - Sherlock’s - couch and caused more inconvenience.

 

“It’s alright.” John held out a hand reassuringly. “I understand. Tell us what they were doing in the warehouse.”

 

“Forging money.”

 

John’s eyes went wide and Sherlock jumped up and got his coat from the back of the door.

 

“How long would you estimate did the car ride take, Mr Hatherley?” Sherlock asked while tying his scarf.

 

“About twenty or thirty minutes,” Vincent answered slowly.

 

In that moment the doorbell rang and Sherlock swept out of the room and down the stairs to open the door. He was talking to someone, then there were steps on the stairs.

 

Two medics entered the flat and John moved away from the sofa, explaining the situation and about his first aid actions. The medics nodded approvingly and went to help Vincent off the sofa and down the stairs into the waiting ambulance.

 

When everyone but John was gone, he put on his jacket and picked up his cane, casting a last glance at the mess of medical supplies all over the coffee table and the bin full of bloodied bandages, deciding that Sherlock would have to clean up on his own.

 

He limped down the stairs and out onto the street, turning right to walk to the nearby underground station. It wasn’t even noon yet. Maybe the day wasn’t completely lost.

 

John hadn’t walked more than a few yards when suddenly Sherlock appeared at his right side.

 

“What do you want now, Sherlock? Did you lose a thumb too?” Didn’t Sherlock understand that John wasn’t his to call for an investigation anymore?

 

_...I don’t want to be in a relationship with you at all..._

 

Sherlock had pushed him away and now John was determined to keep that distance. It was self-preservation.

 

“No, of course not,” Sherlock replied, clearly suppressing his own annoyance at such a ridiculous question. “I wondered if you wanted to see whether Mr Hatherley was telling the truth or not. You’ve got suspicions, as do I, along with half a dozen theories. Wouldn’t you like to find out if his story is true or not?”

 

John glanced sideways to find Sherlock watching him. He quickly looked ahead again.

 

“You’re right, I think he’s not telling the entire truth but I honestly don’t care. I’ll read about it in the papers in a few days or hear about it on the radio. It doesn’t matter to me. You asked me to help with a medical emergency and I did. Our interaction ends here.” John knew he sounded cold. It was what he wanted. He needed to create a greater distance between them or else he would carry on gravitating towards Sherlock, just like he always had and always would. And eventually it would destroy him. Before That Day happened, John hadn’t minded, because no matter what he’d still have Sherlock. Not anymore though.

 

John abruptly stopped walking and turned to look at Sherlock.

 

“I don’t know why you keep on trying to get me to work cases with you ever since I found you in that pub. I don’t know why you suddenly decided that you were interested in my petty little life again. I don’t know and I don’t care. It took me long enough to get on with my life after you left me. I’ve finally found someone new, which you probably already deduced from spotting a long blonde hair on my jacket or jeans. She’s great, her name is Donna and yes, I spent last night at her place – not that it’s any of your business anymore. I’m going to find a new job far away from Baker Street and I’m hopefully not going to see you again because every time I do, it reminds me of That Day. So no, I don’t want to go investigate with you, Sherlock. You closed that door behind you when you-”

 

John cut himself off. It wasn’t like him to make a scene in the middle of the street but he couldn’t bear to stand near Sherlock any longer. He needed to get away. He needed to go back to his flat and make lunch and look for a job and go out with his girlfriend. He needed to not be near Sherlock anymore.

 

Sherlock looked like John had slapped him in the face.

 

 _Good,_ John thought grimly while hobbling down the stairs to Baker Street station.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock watched as John descended the stairs to the underground.

 

_...I’ve finally found someone new..._

 

Of course Sherlock had noticed a number of slightly curled, blonde hairs and the smell of perfume on John’s clothes. That and John’s admission this morning had told Sherlock all he needed to know about the new person in John’s life.

 

_Together for at least three months, possibly a bit longer. Committed relationship. She has a good job with high income._

 

Sherlock slowly turned around to get a taxi. He had to solve Mr Hatherley’s case first.

 

_...Her name is Donna..._

Donna. What a perfectly ordinary name. John was probably bored out of his mind watching telly or going to dinner with her. Why else would he still be limping?

 

_...I spent last night at her place..._

 

Sherlock shook his head in frustration. He needed to concentrate on the case. His work was important.

 

Finally a taxi pulled up next to him and Sherlock gave the driver directions to Dagenham.

 

_Case first, John later._

 

~*~

 

When Sherlock returned to his flat, it was already dark outside.

 

Mr Hatherley had been taken into custody two hours earlier; Sherlock had proven to the police that Vincent Hatherley was not the innocent victim he had claimed to be.

 

Of course Hatherley had known that his story wasn’t adding up or he wouldn’t have tried to make Sherlock believe it before going to the police.

 

In the end it turned out – just as Sherlock had suspected from the beginning – that Hatherley had tried to blackmail the money forgers into including him in the profit.

 

When negotiations weren’t going the way Hatherley would have liked them to, he had run. At least that part of his story was true. After he had lost his thumb and passed out in front of the warehouse, the forgers caught up with him and decided to drug him and carry him somewhere from where he probably wouldn’t find their warehouse again.

 

They counted on Hatherley’s fear of going to the police after he’d offered to become an accomplice.

 

Sherlock had found the warehouse easily enough in a less than five minute walk from the train station where Hatherley had been picked up yesterday morning. It was a common trick to use a car with tinted windows and drive around for a while to throw the blindfolded passenger off before circling back to where they started from. Mycroft used it all the time.

 

The rest had been child’s play. As soon as Sherlock announced that Hatherley had tried to participate in the forgery, Hatherley had broken down and confessed everything.

 

Of course the criminals were already gone, but CCTV had picked up their images while they were loading heavy machinery onto a truck.

 

Scotland Yard was currently searching for them. They also released a statement to the press, to urge citizens to check their money for signs of forgery and to report any findings immediately as it might prove that this was a bigger operation than initially suspected.

 

_John was right. He will read about it in the paper._

 

Sherlock hung up his coat and scarf and flung himself on the sofa.

 

_...All the evidence tells me that you still have feelings for John..._

Of course he still had feelings for John. They have been friends, colleagues and partners for years. John had been an important part of Sherlock’s life ever since he had shot Jeff Hope to save Sherlock’s life.

 

So yes, Sherlock had feelings for John. John was his only friend. Or at least had been Sherlock’s only friend until That Day.

 

_...I’m hopefully not going to see you again..._

John wanted to get away from Sherlock. He was looking for a new job in a different part of town. He had moved to a suburb on the other side of the Thames to be as far away from Sherlock as possible.

 

He had a new girlfriend.

 

Sherlock wanted to pick up his violin and pull at the strings and scratch the bow over it until it wasn’t playable again.

 

Instead he sat up and looked around the dark living room.

 

Mycroft had had the surveillance camera replaced; Sherlock destroyed it on a regular basis. Mrs Hudson had placed his mail on the mantelpiece. She also had cleaned up the coffee table and positioned a platter laden with biscuits close enough to the couch so that Sherlock would eventually pick one up while thinking.

 

Sherlock knew she had learned that trick from John. Both thought Sherlock hadn’t noticed that they were often working together to get him to eat something. He didn’t mind too much since biscuits didn’t considerably slow him down and it made John and Mrs Hudson happy to think they had one up over Sherlock.

 

_...Our interaction ends here..._

 

John either had stopped caring or was hiding it effectively. Either way, he wasn’t behaving as _Sherlock’s_ John had.

 

His John would’ve dashed after him to find out about the mystery of the warehouse. His John would have shown more sympathy for Mr Openshaw after he’d died from a poisonous attack. His John would have come right away without asking questions when Sherlock called. His John would have cleared the coffee table himself.

 

His John would not have spent the night at someone else’s place.

 

_...It took me long enough to get on with my life after you left me..._

 

Sherlock had known that it would take some time for John to forget about his attachment to Sherlock. That’s just how normal people worked. It’s definitely how John worked. He had been fully committed to Sherlock and didn’t have any other choice since Sherlock had demanded all of John’s attention.

 

At the time it had been only logical for them to move forward with their relationship since John was entirely focussed on Sherlock and showing signs of attraction towards him anyway. Sherlock, for his part, was willing to consider the possibility of a romantic relationship with John and when he found out that sex actually was quite pleasant, well, that had been an added bonus.

 

He wouldn’t let himself think about his own feelings too much. Yes, he liked John, valued him and his opinions (mostly because through their incorrectness they often helped Sherlock draw the right conclusions) and had enjoyed the physical aspect of their relationship. That much he was willing to admit.

 

However, John occasionally spoke of love. Sherlock had never been in love, not even felt love or affection for anyone other than Mummy. He was sure he would never experience what it was like. Sherlock Holmes didn’t fall in love, didn’t love anyone, not since Mummy died.

 

Naturally, he had explained it to John, who had only smiled in return and said nothing. Sherlock thought John had understood him. On That Day, when Sherlock told John that their relationship, as it was, would have to end, he was surprised to find out that John had not believed him before.

 

_...So you really don’t love me at all..._

 

Sherlock remembered the defeated look on John’s face, his slumped posture when he realised that Sherlock was, as they call it, breaking up with him.

 

He shook his head. It wouldn’t help anyone to think about this now. John was right: Sherlock was intruding in John’s life again and had asked him along on cases. If he wanted to avoid repeating the same pattern as before he would have to remind himself of why he had let John walk out of his life in the first place.

 

Slowly he lay back on the couch, closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace, finding the one room that he hadn’t entered in almost a year and a half.

 

~*~

**_August 2016_ **

_John had left over two hours ago. Sherlock was still walking around their apartment aimlessly. He was trying to organise his thoughts but always came up with the same solution. Something needed to be done, and soon._

_Four cases had gone unsolved and the last time it had caused the death of an innocent person._

_After weeks of forced idleness caused by a leg injury from his last case, Sherlock was thrilled to have received an interesting problem via email. He dove right into it as soon as John gave him the all-clear._

_But Sherlock wasn’t able to solve the mystery of the body in the locked room._

_He usually loved those because it was always so much fun to tell the police how stupid they were for missing the obvious. Like that one time when it turned out that the occupant of the room next door had altered the ventilation system so that it connected the two rooms. The faint smell of almonds had made it obvious that the killer had released a high dosage of Hydrogen Cyanide gas. Whoever stayed in the adjourning room would have been dead within a minute._

_This time, however, there was no hint as to what had happened and Sherlock had to admit that he didn’t know how the person had died or who might have killed him. All doors and windows were locked from the inside, no hint at a trap door and definitely no ventilation system. It only left suicide but the shape and placement of the fingerprints on the victim’s neck clearly spoke of murder._

_The next case that was brought to him had been more promising but turned out to be just as unsolvable. A young man was looking for his boyfriend. They hadn’t been together for long and the boyfriend was over ten years his senior. At first Sherlock suspected the man’s father of hiring someone to woo his son and then leave him, so that he would realise that his “choice of lifestyle”, as the father had called his son’s sexuality, was wrong. However, Sherlock couldn’t find any evidence for his theory and in the end had to give up the case._

_Two unsolved cases in less than a week. Sherlock was furious with himself and everybody else. Everything and everyone was distracting him. Especially John._

_He had tried to steer Sherlock into bed a few times and even attempted to make him eat. Sometimes John tried to tell Sherlock that probably all he needed was an orgasm to relieve some tension. He even went so far as shooting Sherlock suggestive looks and propositioning him for sex. Finally, a  few days later when John put down a plate of toast and scrambled eggs in front of Sherlock while he was revisiting the details of the lost son case, Sherlock snapped._

_He was not going to eat or sleep and he was definitely not going to have sex with John until he had figured out why his success rate was decreasing._

_John apologised for trying to coerce Sherlock into having sex but still asked him to eat something. Sherlock said nothing at all and only glared at John, who eventually dropped the topic altogether. When Sherlock took on another case John looked equally relieved and worried._

_A man was dead and everything pointed to murder. The wife was out of the question. She hadn’t shown any signs of recognition when shown the Amanitas mushrooms that killed her husband. Nobody had a motive because as it turned out, the dead Mr Scrivener was well-liked and respected and everybody loved him. His past didn’t indicate any kind of malicious behaviour; his proverbial slate was cleaner than Sherlock’s ever seen one to be._

_It was immensely frustrating. Of course everybody had assumed suicide but Mrs Scrivener told them that her husband didn’t know anything about fungi. If the improbable solution were suicide he was more likely to have killed himself by sitting in his car in the garage and turning on the engine._

_Sherlock eventually gave up._

_What followed was one of the worst weeks 221B had seen yet. Sherlock was shooting the wall again and refusing to eat or sleep more furiously than before._

_John was trying to get Sherlock to take his mind off The Work again, but was careful to avoid the subject of orgasms – although he certainly thought about it more than once. Sherlock could tell from increasing length of showers and muffled noises from their bedroom that John was masturbating more frequently. Never when Sherlock could see him, of course, but Sherlock knew that John was hoping that maybe Sherlock would be intrigued. It didn’t work and only served to annoy Sherlock even more. Eventually John announced that he was going to stay at Lestrade’s place for the night to give Sherlock some space._

_The fourth case presented itself that same night in form of a phone call._

_A shaky male sounding voice greeted him with “Hello, sexy.”_

_If Sherlock were prone to drama and metaphors, he would say that in that moment his blood froze._

_“Who is this?” he asked slowly._

_Sherlock received no answer. Instead, the man on the other end of the line told Sherlock that he would have to solve the case in three and a half hours or the caller would die. To start him off he would receive a hint via email in a few seconds. Of course he wasn’t allowed to tell the police or John about their arrangement or the caller would die instantaneously. As it was Sherlock was only allowed to contact the police to gain access to a crime scene but nothing else. John was to be left out of the investigations at all costs._

_Sherlock raced to his laptop and pulled up his email programme. There was one new message, which contained an attached file: a picture of the tarot card for wealth._

_It took him less than two minutes to figure out that the caller meant the case of the dead fortune teller who had been found strangled in her own kitchen two days ago. The police seemed not to know why she had been killed._

_Sherlock left the apartment, texting Lestrade to meet him there and not tell John under any circumstances._

_Three hours later Sherlock still hadn’t found a single thing that would help him solve this case. It was as if someone had known about Sherlock’s methods and had been able to wipe out every little detail that would give him even the slightest idea about what had happened._

_When his time was nearly up, his phone rang again. Sherlock went outside before answering. The caller informed him that because of Sherlock’s failure, he would be injected with adder poison and that as soon as the call ended, Sherlock was allowed to tell everyone about how he had failed._

_When Sherlock asked where he could find him or what his name was the call was interrupted._

_He threw his phone onto the sidewalk, cursing loudly. Lestrade had followed him outside and was watching him cautiously._

_Sherlock told him what had happened in a few short sentences and then went back to the flat, texting John to come back home; Sherlock was ready to go to sleep._

_Over the next few weeks Sherlock tried to find out everything he could about this person who was sloppily copying Moriarty. He even resorted to asking Mycroft for help but nothing turned up._

_It dawned on Sherlock that all four cases had been designed specifically to confuse him. Now that he thought about it, it was obvious that whoever was responsible for them created scenarios and somehow managed for Sherlock to investigate them. None of them were real cases: every single one just a set up to get Sherlock’s attention and watch him be defeated._

_He felt bad for the victims who had died because someone wanted to watch Sherlock fail. He was angry with himself for feeling bad for the victims, because it wouldn’t bring them back to life or help him find the perpetrator. He was silently furious with John for changing Sherlock so much that he cared in the first place. Most of all he abhorred that John was distracting him from figuring all of this out when Sherlock was actually working on the cases._

_He was sure that if he hadn’t spent so much time fencing off John’s attempts at getting him to eat or close his eyes and rest, Sherlock would have figured out that something was off about the cases all along._

_John’s supposedly good influence on Sherlock’s behaviour was slowing Sherlock down, was making him less effective, less observant. It made him human._

_It made him fail._

_Sherlock knew he had to something about it and soon. He had to turn their relationship back into what it had been when they first met: flatmates, colleagues, nothing else. However, Sherlock was certain that John would not be satisfied by that arrangement and would argue with Sherlock’s reasoning. The only way to stop John wanting to change Sherlock would be to let go of John completely._

_He picked up his violin to play some Bach, but found himself abusing the strings and bow until John returned from his night out with Stamford and Lestrade and made Sherlock put the instrument down._

_Yes, in two weeks he would have the perfect opportunity to make John leave._

~*~

 

**February 2018**

 

When Sherlock re-emerged from his mind, sunlight was peering through the windows of the living room.

 

He hated thinking about the four unsolved cases. People had died because someone wanted to prove a point to Sherlock. Another person had died because Sherlock wasn’t able to see through the pattern in time to save the man.

 

Sherlock had been right to leave John afterwards. If it weren’t for John then Sherlock was sure that he would have recognised the cases for what they were in time. He would have been able to save that last victim.

 

He still had no idea who had played with him like that. No traces, no identity. They hadn’t even found the body of the caller or figured out who he was.

 

However, since John had disappeared from his life, Sherlock had been free to return to his distanced, abrasive self. He had solved every case that had come his way ever since.

 

Yes, he had lost some weight and looked a little more haggard from lack of sleep. Sometimes he would wake from a dream ( _memory_ ) aroused and aching for touch. He usually dealt with the problem quickly and efficiently in the shower, never feeling the same kind of satisfaction as when John had taken care of it for Sherlock. But after all, his body was only transport. In due time Sherlock was sure that he would get back to the state where sexual release wouldn’t be necessary.

 

No, he was better off without John. Granted, the apartment often was a mess and he had fewer clients than before. When he investigated the decrease in cases brought to him, he found out that most internet forums advised clients against Sherlock’s service because he was condescending and mean. Some of them even mentioned that they missed John and his exciting blog entries and that his absence probably was the reason for Sherlock’s bad temper.

 

Sherlock usually ignored them. He was not here to ‘make merry’ with his clients. He solved puzzles. If they couldn’t stand his character then their problem wasn’t worthy of his attention in the first place.

 

However, he needed to earn some money to pay rent. Mrs Hudson had been willing to reduce the amount until he found someone new to take the upstairs bedroom. Still, Sherlock had had a hard time coming up even with the reduced amount – or finding a new flatmate. No one met his expectations. Another thing John had ruined for him.

 

If John was the key to his potential clients’ happiness, maybe Sherlock could win John back as his flatmate. That would solve the rent problem as well and he wouldn’t have to work around someone new.

 

There was of course the issue of John’s reluctance to interact with Sherlock.

 

He picked up a biscuit and started absentmindedly nibbling on it. He needed to come up with a plan to convince John to come back and live with him again. Only live with him and talk to clients. Nothing else. Sherlock would have to make sure that John wouldn’t try to interfere with his habits again, but as long as Sherlock mostly kept to himself and held John at arm’s length, it could work.

 

Sherlock smiled to himself and popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth. All he needed was a new case that was intriguing enough to lure John in.


	5. Chapter 5

**March 2018**

 

John tried hard to ignore the black car stopping beside him. He was in no mood to talk to anyone right now and especially not a Holmes.

 

When the door swung open, John quickly glanced inside to see whether it was Mycroft himself or his assistant on the backseat.

 

It was Mycroft.

 

John resumed walking, resolutely staring ahead. “I’m not interested, Mycroft. There’s not much you could say that I don’t already know.”

 

“True as that might be I could still give you a ride home,” Mycroft said. “We both know it will take you at least an hour to reach your flat in Southwark and I dare say that the weather isn’t agreeing with your leg or your shoulder. Why not sit in the car, let me take you home and all you have to do is listen to me telling you what you already know.”

 

Sometimes John hated Mycroft. For example, when he had given Moriarty all the information he needed to destroy Sherlock, or when Mycroft hadn’t told him that Sherlock was still alive.

 

Then again, Mycroft had always been there to support John while Sherlock was gone. He knew that Mycroft had paid Sherlock’s half of the rent during his absence. He also had a suspicion that it was him who had secured John’s position at the practice when John didn’t show up for three months after Sherlock ‘died’.

 

He sighed and climbed into the car.

 

Mycroft lifted his right arm to rap at the partition behind him and a moment later the car pulled into traffic.

 

“How are you, John?” Mycroft asked a few moments later.

 

“Spare me the small talk, please. I’ve had the week from hell and really am not interested in playing nice and proper,” John answered while stretching his leg.

 

Mycroft huffed in mock annoyance and looked down to the umbrella lying across his lap.

 

“It has come to my attention that you visited 221B Baker Street twice in less than two weeks,” Mycroft stated.

 

“Yes, last month,” John replied.

 

Mycroft nodded. “You were also seen around the city in the company of my brother, presumably solving cases.” It was a statement. Mycroft had probably seen the CCTV footage, maybe even talked to witnesses. John wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to have Vincent or Mr St. Clair interrogated to learn everything he could about John and Sherlock’s recent collaboration.

 

John raised his eyebrows questioningly at Mycroft. “And?”

 

Mycroft gave him a small smile. “And I would like to know if you plan on doing it again.”

 

“No,” John said forcefully. “You should check your sources more thoroughly next time. I told Sherlock explicitly that I do not wish to be contacted by him or dragged into more cases.” He hoped they were already across the river, because he wouldn’t be able to endure this much longer without punching something. Preferably Mycroft’s face.

 

“And yet you let him drag you on two and a half cases before putting your foot down,” Mycroft taunted.

 

“The first time we met was by accident and before I knew it I’d agreed to talk to his client. He asked me to convey the news because he’s bollocks at showing sympathy. He caught me off-guard.” John closed his eyes for a brief moment.

 

“Afterwards I forgot my bag in the cab. I went by Baker Street to pick it up because I’d been at work anyway and didn’t want Sherlock snooping around my flat. Sherlock had promised to get a cab to take me home but a client showed up and we went by St. Bart’s to test for a toxin. The client’s safety was more important than my going home.”

 

Mycroft only looked curiously at him.

 

John knew he wasn’t convincing. He easily could’ve made Sherlock pay the cab in advance and left him to it. But the case of Mr Openshaw and the mysterious letters and orange pips had intrigued John. Good thing that he had stayed; who knew if Sherlock would have recognised the symptoms himself? He probably would’ve chalked them up to his body misbehaving due to lack of food or sleep. John didn’t dare to think what could’ve happened if he hadn’t been there to make sure Sherlock got treated.

 

“And the one after that?” Mycroft prompted quietly.

 

John took a deep breath. He knew Mycroft didn’t mean to make him angry or remind him of painful things, but he did and John wished more than ever that his leg would stop hurting, that he wasn’t trapped in the car with Mycroft.

 

“Sherlock said something about a medical emergency. Knowing his aversion to hospitals and assuming that he might be the one who needed immediate treatment, I agreed to come. Besides, I took an oath,” John said as calmly as possible.

 

Mycroft nodded. “I see.”

 

John shifted his gaze to his outstretched leg again. The pain had gotten worse since he walked away from Sherlock two weeks ago. It hadn’t been this bad since he had left Baker Street for good.

 

_Almost a year and a half ago._

 

He sighed again. It was the right decision to tell Sherlock to back off. He had to or he never would get over him. It wasn’t fair to Donna either.

 

Mycroft cleared his throat and John looked back up.

 

“You know he needs you, don’t you?” Mycroft said slowly.

 

John smiled sadly. “Maybe, but he doesn’t want me. Not anymore.”

 

Mycroft looked unimpressed. “You’ve seen him. He’s lost a considerable amount of weight and sleeps no more than two or three hours every few days. He looks even worse than you and that’s only because while both of you know that the body needs nutrition and rest to function properly, you actually care to bear it in mind and act accordingly.”

 

John remembered how thin Sherlock had looked when he first saw him at the pub. John knew he wasn’t exactly the picture of health himself but he was nowhere near as bad as Sherlock.

 

“What do you think _I_ can do about it?” John asked carefully. He didn’t want to know, but as he had pointed out only ten minutes ago, he had sworn an oath.

 

“Nobody can argue that you were a good influence on my brother, John. Sherlock might, but he doesn’t always know what’s good for him. He needs you to keep him on track, to be his moral compass and to keep his body functioning by making him eat and rest.” Mycroft’s voice had gotten louder. John knew that Mycroft was genuinely worried about Sherlock’s wellbeing. However, to come begging for John’s help without the offer of money was new.

 

“He doesn’t want me in his life, Mycroft. He made that clear when he didn’t show up for-“ John took a deep breath. He still couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t. “He left me. He didn’t want me in his life anymore, so I walked away. I had to. I couldn’t go back to being just flatmates and occasionally colleagues. Not after everything we’ve been through together. Sherlock ended our relationship and now I’m doing my damned best to get on with my life and not think too often about this wonderful mad man. Because every time I do, it breaks my heart a little more that in the end I wasn’t able to hold his interest.” John slumped back into his seat.

 

He absolutely hadn’t meant to say any of that, especially to Mycroft Holmes, of all people.

 

John rubbed a hand over his face before he dared to lift his eyes again.

 

Mycroft looked  ... well, ‘shocked’ was the word John would choose but he was not ready to associate that particular facial expression with Sherlock’s older brother.

 

Mycroft caught himself a moment later, cleared his throat and stroked a hand over the umbrella on his lap.

 

“I see. Still, John, I implore you to reconsider. I cannot claim to know how you must have felt on that day, or in the time that followed but I wouldn’t be asking this of you if I had other options,” Mycroft pleaded in a low voice.

 

“And how do you think I do that? Move back into Baker Street without any explanation, tie him to the kitchen chair and force feed him Chinese food? Or knock him unconscious to make sure he stays asleep for a bit?” _That actually doesn’t sound too bad_ , John mused.

 

“No, of course not.” Mycroft’s words were betrayed by the small smile playing around his lips. “Just, when my brother asks you on another case say yes and maybe celebrate the victory over dinner.”

 

“ _If_ ,” John corrected. “If he asks me on another case. I think I made it very clear that I did not appreciate being contacted by him,” he explained when Mycroft shot him a confused look.

 

“Oh, believe me, John, it’s a question of ‘when’ and not ‘if’. After all, you know how much my brother cares for restrictions.”

 

At that moment the car stopped and the door opened. John recognised the street as his own and sure enough found himself in front of his apartment building as soon as he stepped out of the car.

 

“Goodbye, John,” Mycroft called before the door closed and the car drove off again.

 

“Yes, goodbye,” John said to himself before searching through his bag for his keys.

 

~*~

 

**_February 2015_ **

_John was about to set out their take-away on plates and arrange everything on the living room table so they could eat properly, neither risking contamination of any of Sherlock’s experiments nor their food. He had only just opened the containers when Lestrade strode into their living room, calling loudly for Sherlock who was currently taking his post-case twenty minute long shower._

_“What did he do this time?” John asked while manoeuvring panang chicken curry onto a plate. Greg barging in on their dinner (or breakfast, or tea time, or whatever meal he felt he needed to interrupt) was not new and John refused to let it throw him off his preparations. If Sherlock had to leave again, so be it, but John would eat first and follow later if necessary._

_“He ‘forgot’ to give his statement to the police man on site again.”_

_“You’ll have to wait a little longer. Sherlock’s still in the shower. It’s only been sixteen minutes,” John replied without looking up from his task. Getting the rice out of the container without crumbling it too much was always the most difficult part and he’d be damned if he let Lestrade distract him enough to get it wrong._

_From the sound of it, Lestrade had sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. John half expected him to break into the bathroom and demand that Sherlock get down to the Yard immediately. Instead he sighed heavily._

_John was done with the rice (a complete success) and looked round to where the DI was sitting._

_Lestrade looked tired, but not unhealthily so, yet. He did look annoyed though._

_It was clear to John that Lestrade’s visit was about Sherlock leaving the scene before explaining to the police what had happened. John had asked how Sherlock knew that the guy was guilty and Sherlock had explained his deductions to John._

_From the way the gravel looked and cross-referencing it with the state of the suspect’s clothes (especially his jacket sleeves), Sherlock had formed his theory. From there it was all a question of connecting the remaining dots and catching the criminal in the act. The stakeout had taken up most of their night._

_The police officers however had been abrasive and almost condescending when they arrived. They arrested the suspect without hesitation but didn’t ask for Sherlock’s statement. He and John had stayed for half an hour before Sherlock decided that he’d had enough and left._

_John hadn’t minded at the time because he was hungry and cold and still wet from the rain earlier. He knew that Greg would probably text later and demand they get down to the station first thing in the morning. John had not expected him to show up at the flat close to midnight._

_“Why not text him to come to the Yard tomorrow?” John asked curiously, carrying the two plates over to the living room table._

_“I’m leaving tomorrow morning for Bath and won’t return until Sunday next week. He probably won’t show up when someone else asks him to give the statement and I’d really like to close this case sooner rather than later,” Greg answered, finally sounding as tired as he looked._

_In that moment the bathroom door opened and Sherlock stepped out, wrapped in a cloud of steam._

_John busied himself with their drinks, deliberately looking anywhere but at Sherlock and trying to not be too obvious about it. He had been in love with his flatmate long before he had faked his death. After Sherlock’s return last summer, John had to accept that in this case absence absolutely had made the heart grow fonder. All the feelings that he thought had died with Sherlock came rushing back the moment John saw him sitting in his armchair._

_Of course he hadn’t told Sherlock and probably never would. He still sometimes marvelled at the fact that Sherlock actually was alive and well and sitting only a few feet away from him._

_“No, Sherlock, you can’t just leave the crime scene without a statement! You need to tell the police officers what happened as soon as possible so they can do their work and have the criminal prosecuted,” Greg all but yelled (it was after midnight after all). John realised he had already missed part of their conversation._

_Sherlock was wearing sweat pants and his thin grey t-shirt beneath the blue dressing gown, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms folded in front of his chest and legs crossed. He looked bored and slightly annoyed, and probably hadn’t expected Lestrade to show up tonight either._

_“Yes, Lestrade, I certainly can when the policemen are absolutely incompetent. I offered to explain the situation but neither of them was interested in my explanation. They even said something about getting the statement from the suspect directly instead of me. I take it they weren’t as successful in coaxing a confession from a professional killer as they thought they would be. Well, you’ll have to wait till tomorrow morning. As you can see, we are about to eat and I refuse to let the food go cold because your subordinates are imbeciles who can’t even observe the most obvious things about your suspect.” Sherlock sounded calm and polite but John knew that Sherlock was neither. He probably was annoyed and too proud to let Greg tell him what to do._

_“I already told every member of my team to always take your statement first if you’re involved in the investigation. They’re new and didn’t know any better. Please, Sherlock, as you said, that man is a professional killer. I want to close this case as soon as possible and for that I need your statement.” Lestrade had resorted to pleading._

Interesting _, John thought while starting to eat. Greg must be getting a lot of pressure from his superiors if he was willing to all but beg Sherlock to help him out._

_Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion because a few seconds later he huffed out as suffering a breath as only he could manage._

_“Fine,” he said with as much irritability in his voice as possible. John smiled at his plate._

 

~*~

 

**March 2018**

 

A little over a week later John had to face the fact that Mycroft usually always ended up being right.

 

_Request help for stakeout at Jubilee Place near Canary Wharf station, 7pm. SH_

 

John had spent the last week thinking about Mycroft’s request. On the one hand he knew he needed to get over Sherlock and move on with his life, possibly with Donna.

 

Then again, John missed and craved the excitement of the chase. Running after Sherlock, making sure the man wouldn’t get himself killed - John thrived on it. Maybe, if he could bring himself to go back to being Sherlock’s colleague, or maybe even friend, his leg wouldn’t hurt so damn much all the time.

 

In the end John hadn’t come to any conclusion, resigning himself to see whether Sherlock would actually ask him along or not.

 

John opened a new text and then hesitated. If he texted back now, if he gave in and helped Sherlock with this case, he would open the door to more invites; he would see Sherlock more often again, knowing what they had had and what was now lost to John.

 

**_I’ll be there on time._ **

****

There never was a question whether he would go. Sherlock knew it; Mycroft knew it and John, well, John had known too.

 

~*~

 

John arrived a little before seven. Sherlock hadn’t specified which place they would have to be watching so John just walked up and down in front of the building at Jubilee Place that looked like it housed a few shops.

 

He was about to text Sherlock when he was grabbed by the collar of his jacket and yanked into an alcove.

 

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. Bit of a warning next time,” John chided.

 

“Shh, John, lower your voice. The point of a stakeout is to remain undetected,” Sherlock replied impatiently.

 

John tried to ignore the parts of his body where Sherlock was touching him. He was all but pinning John to the wall to keep him from moving back into the light. When they had been on stakeouts together in the past, John hadn’t minded all that much when Sherlock used his own body to restrain John’s movement. However, now everything was different. Sherlock’s close proximity was more unnerving than pleasant. John leaned onto his cane heavily, trying to create as much distance between him and Sherlock as he could.

 

“Uhm, Sherlock, would you mind backing off.” John tried to step to the side but Sherlock still had his hand on John’s jacket collar. He looked down into John’s face and John recognised the exact moment when Sherlock realised how close they were standing and where his hand was. He let go of John as if he’d been burned, stepping to the side as much as possible whilst still being hidden in the shadow.

 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to -” He cut himself off. “Sorry,” Sherlock repeated. If John weren’t still trying to get his pulse back under control he would have laughed at the expression on Sherlock’s face. He looked like he’d forgotten that he and John hadn’t been talking to each other for the better part of eighteen months.

 

“It’s alright, just try to remember about personal space, okay?” John cleared his throat. “So what are we looking out for?” he asked as calmly as possible.

 

“This morning, the branch manager of Jones Bootmaker, Mr Wilson, came to see me. A few months ago he employed a new assistant. The man proved himself to be trustworthy and reliable so Mr Wilson didn’t mind giving him the late shift, especially since he always asked for it. Yesterday during the inventory Mr Wilson found a hidden compartment in one of their stock shelves. He’s sure that it hadn’t been there before. Inside, he found a small package containing white powder. He brought it to me.” Sherlock was watching John’s reaction carefully.

 

John had a strong suspicion that it wasn’t dry glue or flour in that bag. “Heroin or cocaine?” he asked.

 

“Cocaine,” Sherlock replied curtly.

 

“Why then didn’t he go to the police with it?” John asked. He was doing his best to keep the worry out of his voice. He wanted to know how Sherlock knew it was cocaine, whether he had tested it in a Petri dish or by tasting it. He wouldn’t ask though. Sherlock didn’t want him to take care of him anymore, so John wouldn’t.

 

“In case the employee is innocent. The shop owner doesn’t want to get him into trouble or lose him. He asked me to find out whether the substance actually a recreational drug and whether it was his assistant dealing,” Sherlock finished.

 

“And tonight there will be a new delivery and you plan on catching him in the act,” John concluded. Sherlock only nodded in reply.

 

“Alright. I’ll watch the back entrance, you stay here. Whoever has a visual of the delivery texts the other,” John instructed, giving Sherlock no opportunity to protest. He turned and walked around the building to the back where he found a niche that was mostly hidden in the shadows.

 

He settled in, leaning against the wall, hoping that whoever was going to deliver the drugs would do it sooner rather than later; the cold was creeping into his bones and making his leg ache.

 

~*~

 

Three hours and twenty minutes later John watched as the shop assistant, who had turned out to be Daniel McCarthy, a known drug dealer, was arrested and taken away in a police car.

 

Sherlock had seen him first but the transaction was apparently going to happen closer to where John was waiting. Half an hour later they had managed to capture McCarthy and one of the delivery guys and had secured the drugs.

 

Daniel had thrown a bit of a temper tantrum while they were waiting for the police. John had to keep himself from punching the guy a few times just to make him stop yelling that they would regret this and get what they deserve. If John had been easily scared by threats like that, he would’ve given up working with Sherlock a long time ago.

 

He sighed. He was working with Sherlock again. Completely voluntarily this time. He couldn’t accuse anyone other than himself for persuading him into helping with the stakeout.

 

John looked around for Sherlock. He was explaining the progression of events to the nearest police officer. As though he felt John looking at him, he suddenly turned his head to look around. When his eyes found John, Sherlock made a face that spoke of his utter annoyance at having to explain anything to the police.

 

A few minutes later the police officer released Sherlock. He immediately turned his back to her and walked over to where John was standing.

 

“Why can’t they just think?” Sherlock asked with the same amount of aggravation and frustration he reserved especially for dealing with the Yard.

 

“Not everybody can look at a bit of gravel and someone’s sleeves and know what they’re up to,” John replied, smiling.

 

The post-case complaining about the police’s incompetence felt familiar, and good. For the first time since they met again four weeks ago, John didn’t have to fight the urge to run in the opposite direction.

 

Sherlock almost smiled back, the corners of his mouth twitching almost unnoticeably. Sherlock won though, keeping his facial expression neutral. Still, John knew Sherlock was remembering the case as vividly as he was, including the following visit from Lestrade.

 

John rubbed a hand over his face and looked around for a moment, finally asking, “How about some dinner? Last time I ate was around five and now it’s almost eleven.”

 

If Sherlock was surprised by John’s suggestion, he didn’t show it. However, a moment later he nodded in agreement. “Thai?” he asked.

 

“Yes, Thai sounds great. Do you know a place anywhere near here? I’m not sure I won’t starve if we have to go all the way back into the city,” John replied, pleased that Sherlock remembered that John usually craved Thai food after a stakeout.

 

Sherlock cocked his head, probably calling up the information about available Thai restaurants near Canary Wharf, then nodded curtly and whirled around, phone in hand.

 

John gripped his cane and followed while Sherlock called them a cab.

 

~*~

 

It was well past midnight when John and Sherlock left the New Thai Garden on Commercial Street. The food had been surprisingly good but John had come to accept that Sherlock always managed to find them nondescript places with exceptional food. Neither of them liked big, flashy restaurants.

 

Sherlock hailed a cab and gestured for John to get in before settling down next to him, giving the driver John’s address.

 

“Thanks for dinner,” John said. Sherlock had paid for their meals before John had the chance to get his wallet out of his jeans pocket.

 

“Thank you for helping me with the case,” Sherlock replied stiffly.

 

While eating, their conversation had been friendly and polite. It didn’t feel as awkward as the last few times John had seen Sherlock but wasn’t anywhere near their old familiarity yet.

 

Of course it wasn’t.

 

However, John had told Sherlock about work and Sherlock, in return, had explained his latest experiments and told John about a few cases he’d solved. It was almost like when they had first started living together.

 

 _Maybe we_ can _be friends again,_ John thought, looking out the window and smiling to himself. After all, he’d only thought about their breakup once or twice throughout dinner, instead of every twenty seconds as had been the case when he’d last met Sherlock.

 

When the cab stopped in front of John’s apartment building, he slowly climbed out of the car, turning round and offering his hand to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise before he slowly moved to take John’s hand.

 

“Good night, Sherlock,” John said, gripping Sherlock’s hand tightly. He could feel the warmth seeping through Sherlock’s leather gloves, letting go a moment later before he lost himself in the sensation.

 

“Good night, John,” Sherlock replied slowly. They stared at each other for a moment longer before John shook his head minutely and closed the door. The cab drove off almost immediately.

 

He wasn’t even done unlocking the front door yet when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Only after he’d entered his flat and hung up his jacket did he read the text.

 

_May I call you again for a case? SH_

John thought about how well the evening had gone. The thrill of a case, getting Sherlock to eat something, the almost not awkward conversation ... if he were able to repeat tonight’s success, he certainly wouldn’t mind joining Sherlock on more cases in the future. As long as he made sure to not let Sherlock take over his entire life again. And as long as he managed to not think too much about how things used to be between them (or how they had ended).

 

He hit the reply button.

 

**_Yes._ **


	6. Chapter 6

**June 2018**

She didn’t even bother replying to that one. It wasn’t that Donna wasn’t prepared for something like this. After all, over the last three months, John had cancelled more dates than he’d attended.

 

The excuses always started with ‘Sherlock and I’ or ‘This case’ or ‘Sorry, but Sherlock found’. One time John had claimed that Sherlock was still deducing who the hat belonged to but was close to cracking the mystery of the dead duck. Donna hadn’t bothered replying to that text either.

 

When all of this had started, she had sat him down and demanded an explanation after John had failed to show up for two dates in a row.

 

It had taken him some time to stop tiptoeing around the topic before he finally admitted that he and Sherlock were kind of working together again.

 

Of course Donna knew the entire story of Sherlock and John and their big, heartbreaking end - at least heartbreaking on John’s end. She knew what Sherlock had done to John and how it had hurt him. Donna knew about the heartbreak. It was hard to miss with how closed off he was, rarely talking about his past. At first she thought it was because of the time he’d spent in Afghanistan but whenever they touched upon the war, John talked animatedly about his time abroad and the beautiful country and the other soldiers.

 

Donna figured that something or someone must’ve hurt him badly after he’d returned or else he wouldn’t have been so reluctant to talk about his life after the war.

 

One night, a little over a month after they got together, he invited her to his place for the first time. He must’ve been nervous because he kept on emptying and refilling his wine glass. She had hoped to try out John’s bed before the night was over but soon realised that nothing of the sort would be happening when John shrank in on himself on the sofa and started telling her about Sherlock with words slightly slurred from too much alcohol.

 

Sherlock, the man he had loved and possibly would always love. The man who had given him a new life after the war. The man who had left him exactly one year ago and whom John just couldn’t forget.

 

John never talked about that night or Sherlock after that, making sure to never drink enough to get drunk in her presence again. Whether it was out of embarrassment over having confessed his love for another man or because of the heartbreak, she didn’t know.

 

Either way, it never bothered her too much that John still loved Sherlock. Donna was sure that he was well capable of loving her as well, given enough time. She wasn’t even sure yet if she loved John, so it was only fair not to expect it of him.

 

Of course she should be furious that John had shown interest in her mostly because she was _not_ Sherlock. Donna had searched online for information about Sherlock and had found his website and a few news reports. The blog that John had mentioned in his drunken tale was nowhere to be found and she assumed he’d deleted it.

 

The pictures of Sherlock told her just how much he had hurt John and how desperate he was to get away from Sherlock, to forget him. Sherlock was tall, pale and thin, had dark hair, bright eyes and cheek bones that any model would want. Some people would probably call him odd-looking but she could see the appeal.

 

It wasn’t that Donna thought she wasn’t attractive. She thought herself pretty damn gorgeous and had no problem admitting it. But with her long, blonde curls, medium height and curvy body Donna looked nothing like Sherlock Holmes. Her profession as a PR manager certainly was exciting to her, but positively boring to John. She knew that and neither of them minded. He didn’t tell her about the vomit and the bleeding cuts he saw at work and she spared him stories about statistics and customer surveys. Her life and work didn’t make John feel as alive as working with Sherlock bloody Holmes did.

 

In short, she was as far away as John could get from his ex-everything.

 

Donna may not be as smart as a certain Mr Holmes but she certainly wasn’t unintelligent either. When she found out where Sherlock lived, she’d known why John had moved to Southwark and why he was on the lookout for a new job further away from the city. Donna too was an attempt to get away from Sherlock.

 

She wasn’t going to hold it against John. She believed that he genuinely cared about her and that he wanted their relationship to work.

 

Only that John wanted his and Sherlock’s relationship, however they defined it now, to work too.

 

Donna was able to deal with all of this but she just couldn’t be happy for John. Not because she was jealous of Sherlock. Okay, maybe she was a little bit. What worried her was John’s emotional state. He might not say it or maybe he was in denial, but Donna knew that he still wasn’t over Sherlock. He probably never would be, even though it had already been little over a year and a half since they split up.

 

And now Sherlock was using John as a sounding board, or free help, or whatever it was Sherlock saw in John. It angered her that John was so ready to go back to Sherlock after everything he’d done to him. She liked John a lot and had no desire to see him hurt again. The first two months after they started dating had been bad enough. Coaxing John out of his shell and making him believe that she was interested in him had taken some effort. And that had been more than a year after their breakup.

 

If John got hurt by Sherlock again, who knew how long it would take him to let anybody in – if ever.

 

Donna was not going to just watch it happen.

 

~*~

 

**_August 2017_ **

 

_She didn’t often visit pubs, trying to avoid unwanted attention from guys who’d had one pint too many. However, it was her friend’s birthday and Donna didn’t have much choice._

_It was her turn to buy the next round, which was why she was currently sitting at the bar, waiting for the bartender to notice her._

_“If you don’t start making some noise, he’ll never pay you any attention,” someone to her right said._

_Donna turned her head, finding a good looking man sitting two stools away from her. She raised an eyebrow. “What do you suggest I do?”_

_“You could shout a bit. Or whistle,” he suggested, a smile tugging at his lips._

_Instead of following his advice, she scooted closer to sit next to him. “How about you get him to pay attention to me and I buy you a drink as thank you?” Donna nodded to his almost empty glass._

_“Sounds fair,” he replied._

_Five minutes later she had placed her order and found out that the man didn’t live too far away from here. When the bartender came back with her drinks, she was going to order another round for him as well but he stopped her by explaining that he didn’t drink more than one pint in one night._

_She must’ve looked confused because he then said something about principles and bad experiences and had this look on his face as if to ask why she couldn’t guess his reason on her own._

_Donna was about to leave without another word but she had promised him a drink. “Okay, so what should I get you?”_

_“Coffee, tomorrow afternoon perhaps?” He dared a quick glance to gauge her reaction._

_“Is that how you get all the women to go out with you? Persuade them to buy you a drink in exchange for getting the bartender to take their order and then claiming not to want another drink tonight?” She was smiling at him, only to find him looking almost sad._

_“No, sorry, I didn’t mean to come across as manipulative.” He was turning away, eyes downcast._

_Donna was intrigued. “I don’t mind. I was just curious. Coffee sounds good, actually.”_

_He looked up again, searching her face and apparently finding what he was looking for, because a moment later he nodded and wrote down his cell phone number so she could let him know where to meet her._

_When Donna returned to her table with the drinks she looked back at him: he was frowning at his now empty glass. She pulled out her cell phone to send him a quick message._

By the way, my name is Donna. Donna Richards.

_She watched him while he read her message. It took him a while to type out his answer but eventually her phone buzzed in her hand._

**I’m John Watson. Nice to meet you.**

_When she looked in his direction again, he was gone. Donna didn’t know what it was but she was definitely interested in finding out what made John Watson tick._

 

~*~

 

**June 2018**

 

It took a little over a week before John found enough time between work and Sherlock to meet her in a small café near his place where they often had breakfast after she stayed over.

 

John had just finished telling the tale of their latest case (something about a man who pretended to be his own identical twin so he could marry two women) and was smiling happily at her.

 

 _Now or never_ , Donna thought.

 

“John, where do you see our relationship going?” she asked.

 

“That’s a bit sudden.”

 

“Not really. We’ve been together for nine months now.” She was watching him carefully. He looked even more surprised, as if he hadn’t even noticed how much time had gone by. He probably hadn’t, with all the cases he’d been working on lately.

 

“Right,” he said slowly.

 

“You haven’t thought about it.” A statement, not a question.

 

John looked guilty. “No, I haven’t actually. You know how it’s been lately. Work and cases and I just didn’t  ...” He knew it was a feeble excuse.

 

“The cases. Yes, I can see that they’re distracting you.” John was about to speak but she held up a hand. “I can also see that they make you happy. You take less pain medication, you smile more, especially when you tell me about how brilliant Sherlock was, and you eat more.”

 

His face contorted into an interesting expression, as though he was trying to cringe and look surprised at the same time. John probably didn’t think she’d notice all the changes, let alone mention them to him. It told her a lot about the kind of relationship he and Sherlock had.

 

“I know that the cases, or rather, working with Sherlock, makes you happy, John. I’m just concerned about how _we_ fit in with them or what happens when it all stops.” The _again_ didn’t need to be said out loud to ring in both their ears.

 

“I’m not asking you to choose between him and me. I know I can only lose.” Donna smiled at him, trying to not look too sad about it.

 

He swallowed. “What are you asking then?”

 

She took a deep breath. This was it. “I’m asking that you won’t let him hurt you again. I know you don’t want to talk about what happened between the two of you and I respect that, but I know you still love him. I was ready to ignore it because I thought that eventually you may come to care about me, too.”

 

“I care about you,” John said and she knew he was convinced of it.

 

“I know you do. But not like you should care about someone you’ve been going out with for the better part of a year.”

 

He looked dumbfounded.

 

“As I said before, I was going to live with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes and your feelings for him because he was no immediate threat. He wasn’t in your life anymore and given some time and possibly more distance, you might have been able to leave him behind, or at least not let it stop you from looking at someone else. But then you let him back in. And I understand why you let him, I really do, but competing with him when he wasn’t around was hard enough. I don’t stand a chance now that he’s actually part of your life again.”

 

John looked positively ill now. Donna took his hand and waited till he met her eyes again.

 

“I don’t begrudge you your happiness; I’m just sad I didn’t have the opportunity to be part of it for longer.” She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

 

She didn’t want him to feel bad about any of this. Yes, he had ditched her more times than they’d seen each other in the last three months but he hadn’t done it to hurt her. John just had lost track of their relationship because of Sherlock. If anyone, Donna blamed Sherlock.

 

“I’m sorry,” John said after a few more minutes of silence.

 

“Me too.” She smiled sadly at him.

 

“I ... I probably should go.” He pulled his hand away and stood up, looking at her uncertainly, as if he didn’t know whether he should just go or offer his hand to shake first.

 

Donna got to her feet, taking the decision from him by hugging him close to her. When they parted a moment later he smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

 

“I know. It’s alright.” She hoped he wouldn’t beat himself up over this too much. “If something happens, with him I mean, I’m still your friend. Or at least I’ll try to be.”

 

John nodded, finally letting go of her, turning around and walking out of the café.

 

She sat back down, staring at her half empty coffee cup and tried not to cry.

 

_John Watson, I think I could’ve fallen in love with you._

 

Donna drained her cup, put money on the table and left the café. No use shedding tears. She would find someone new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iPhone screenshots created with http://www.fakeiphonetext.com/ and Photoshop.


	7. Chapter 7

**July 2018**

 

If John had been honest with himself he would’ve seen it coming.

 

Almost two weeks after Donna broke up with him he was still thinking about how he could’ve prevented it. Sherlock hadn’t said a word about it yet. Either he hadn’t bothered to notice until now or he was for once tactful enough to not mention it, given their past.

 

However, if John had been honest with himself, he might have been able to be a better partner to Donna. Instead he’d fallen into the same pattern all over again: he would find someone he liked and even somehow convince them to go out with him and then Sherlock would show up with a case or emergency and capture all of John’s attention to become his first priority.

 

Donna was right to dump him.

 

Yes, John should’ve known that if he let Sherlock back in he’d end up monopolising John’s time. He should’ve put his foot down, said ‘no’ once in a while and gone home to meet his girlfriend instead of chasing criminals through dirty back alleys with Sherlock.

 

But he’d gotten rather good at suppressing unpleasant thoughts. John had managed to successfully drown out all doubts and painful thoughts for the better part of three months already. He hadn’t thought about their breakup more than once or twice over the last couple of weeks. He barely thought about their past at all, trying to stay in the here and now and not let it be ruined by what happened in September two years ago.

 

Two years ago. It was May when John had asked. He hadn’t noticed that particular anniversary. John wondered if Sherlock remembered.

 

John felt a low throb of pain run through his leg. He’d have to stop by the chemist and get pain killers. Sherlock would notice that, too. He wondered for a moment whether Sherlock would finally say something about John’s breakup with Donna. John didn’t want to have that conversation. It would lead to the real reason for the pain getting worse again and there was no use in getting into it. Not now, not ever.

 

He desperately wished that he could go back in time a few weeks. He’d been happy then. Well, at least happier than before. Even Donna had noticed that he was more at home with himself. He ate more, he slept better and his leg barely hurt even though it still wouldn’t support his weight without the help of the cane.

 

But for the first time since That Day, John thought that maybe he could be content.

 

Of course it had occurred to him that it was more than not good that his happiness seemed to depend solely on keeping Sherlock close.

 

It was what Donna saw. She alone wasn’t able to make him happy. He needed Sherlock for that. Still, so long as he had Sherlock, Donna (or anyone else for that matter) wouldn’t stand a chance. A vicious cycle.

 

John was annoyed with himself. He’d slipped back into JohnAndSherlock mode easily. He’d had the excuse of doing Mycroft a favour and the pain in his leg that would go away as long as John felt enough adrenaline running through his veins. He wasn’t craving Sherlock’s company because he was still in love with him. Of course not; he’d had Donna.

 

Whom he had ditched for Sherlock more times than he could remember.

 

She definitely was right to dump him.

 

_...“I don’t want to be in a relationship with you at all. It took me a while to figure it out but surely you’ll prefer that I don’t pretend.” There was annoyance in his voice, as if he found it extremely tedious to have to explain his reasons to John..._

 

John flinched. He didn’t want to think about this now.

 

_...“So you really don’t love me at all.”_

_“No, of course not. I told you I don’t fall in love with anyone. I thought you understood that when I explained it to you after we first started sleeping together.”..._

John shook his head, trying to dislodge the memory. He’d managed to keep it out for so long now that he didn’t want it back. He needed to keep a clear head if he wanted to keep working with Sherlock. He needed to maintain his emotional distance, no matter how much he would have to pretend that he wasn’t still in love with Sherlock.

 

_...But surely you’ll prefer that I don’t pretend..._

 

John let out an angry groan, causing some of the other pedestrians to jump and hurry away from him. He needed to stop thinking about it. Maybe, if he were lucky, Sherlock wouldn’t need him today and John could spend the afternoon regaining some of his fake indifference before he’d have to face Sherlock again.

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

 

He slid open the screen and cringed when he saw Sherlock’s name on the screen. John didn’t want to read the message but Sherlock wouldn’t leave him alone until John answered.

 

_Assistance required immediately. SH_

 

John stopped walking and leant against the nearest wall. He rubbed a hand over his face and stared at the screen. The phone buzzed again.

 

_New case! Come to the Ritz. SH_

 

Yes, John thought as much. Sherlock had refrained from making John travel from one end of the city to the other to write a text or pass a pen. He only ever texted when there was a case.

 

**_On my way._ **

 

John pocketed his phone and turned around to walk back to the train station. Not going would only raise Sherlock’s suspicions and more than likely lead to an unwelcome conversation. The painkillers would have to wait a little longer.

 

~*~

 

Hours later Sherlock was no closer to the solution than when John had first arrived at the Ritz. They’d looked at the body of a middle aged woman whose right ring finger was missing. Someone had cut it off with a sharp knife. She had been strangled with the belt from her silk dressing gown shortly after she’d lost the finger.  She was an American and had recently come into possession of a lot of money when her father died. The trip to Great Britain was a dream come true and London was supposed to only be the first stop.

 

They’d gone back to Baker Street and Sherlock was still trying to make sense of the case and figure out who the killer was two hours later. He couldn’t settle on one single suspect and kept going over and over it again.

 

John was sharply reminded of a similar situation two years ago when Sherlock wasn’t able to solve a string of seemingly easy cases. He wondered whether this was going to be like that time. If that were the case then maybe he wouldn’t have to go on trying to pretend for much longer. If Sherlock decided that rekindling their working relationship had been a bad idea then he’d cut John out of his life anyway.

 

“It doesn’t make sense. Why the finger? Obviously because of the expensive ring she bought two days earlier. But why not take her money as well? Or any of the jewellery or clothes? It doesn’t make sense!” Sherlock was still rapidly pacing the living room, talking to himself.

 

John suddenly wondered when Sherlock had last eaten or slept. He looked exhausted and had dark circles under his eyes. He hadn’t called John for a case in a few days and John had just assumed that there weren’t any but maybe Sherlock didn’t need or want John’s help for them instead. John tried to ignore the soft pang of disappointment at that thought.

 

Still, it looked like Sherlock was running on reserve and would need a proper meal or a bit of rest to get his brain back to full function. John was sure that if Sherlock lay down and slept for a few hours and possibly ate at least a sandwich or two, he’d solve that case within minutes.

 

“Sherlock,” John said into the quiet when Sherlock stopped talking for a moment. He kept on moving around the living room though, obviously ignoring John.

 

“Sherlock!” John called a little louder, still not getting any reaction from Sherlock.

 

“Sherlock, will you stop for a second and listen to me?” He’d planted himself in the middle of Sherlock’s favourite pacing route, effectively blocking the way and finally capturing Sherlock’s attention.

 

“What?” Sherlock snapped at him. The dark circles were obvious as well as the redness of Sherlock’s sleep deprived eyes.

 

“Sherlock, I know you don’t agree with me but you need to rest and have something to eat. I’ll wake you in three hours, you don’t have to eat more than a sandwich and then you can go back to the case – it’ll keep that long. I promise you’ll solve it in no time after that.” He tried for soothing and cautious, always expecting Sherlock to lash out verbally or physically.

 

“No,” Sherlock said, stepping around John to choose another route to continue pacing.

 

John sighed. “Sherlock, you look like you haven’t slept since I last saw you and I bet you haven’t eaten in just as long. Your body needs nutrition and rest or else it’ll fail your brain.” Logic usually appealed to Sherlock.

 

“No,” Sherlock repeated sharply, not even glancing in John’s direction.

 

“Sherlock,” John began again, only to be interrupted by a shouted “No!”

 

“It's not important, John. Nothing is important. Just my work, nothing else. I thought you understood that!" Sherlock was standing stock still, fists clenched at his side. John had rarely seen him so angry and barely contained.

 

_...I consider myself married to my work..._

_...everything else is just transport..._

_...In fact, I don’t want to be in a relationship with you at all...  
  
_ John closed his eyes briefly.

 

There it was again, the reminder of why this had been a bad idea in the first place. Sherlock didn’t want distractions and he didn’t want other people around. John felt like slapping himself for falling back into the old habit of trying to take care of Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t want that from him. All Sherlock looked for in another person was praise for his brilliant deductions. He needed someone who’d act as a sounding board or asked the right kind of inane questions.

 

That was all John was to him.

 

Well, not anymore. This was going to end once and for all. Right now.

 

"You're right. You're absolutely right,” he replied as calmly as possible, hands balled into tight fists. “Nothing else but the work and things that help you do it. How could I forget after experiencing first hand that all that is important to you is your fucking intellect?” He was hissing angrily now, trembling with rage and his fingernails digging painfully into the palms of his hands. “Sorry for being in your way.”

 

He had been foolish to let himself be roped into helping Sherlock with cases again. He had known that it would only end in heartbreak and pain, just like last time. Even Donna had known it, warned him, and still he had returned as soon as Sherlock had offered. Harry was not the only Watson with an addictive streak that led to self ruin, it seemed.

 

For a second it looked like Sherlock was going to say something but John was already turning around towards the stairs.  
  
"I need to go. Try her tour guide; I thought he looked suspicious," he forced out on his way to the door, picking up his cane from where he’d leant it against the sofa and limping heavily out of 221B and down to the first floor.

 

As soon as he stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the building he moved to hail a cab. Instead, a sleek black car pulled up right next to him.

 

“Oh God, not right now, Mycroft!” John groaned. He definitely was not in the mood to deal with another Holmes at the moment. For a brief moment John wondered how Mycroft managed to appear so quickly after John had just stormed out but before he could tell Mycroft to fuck off, John felt someone grabbing him from behind and something pricking his neck. Then everything went black. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Day 0**

_...Try her tour guide, I thought he looked suspicious..._

 

The tour guide.

 

The tour guide!

 

The American woman’s tour guide. Of course! How could he have missed it? It was so obvious. Obvious to John even. Not the Yard, but they were morons anyway. John, however ... he had noticed the guide. And Sherlock had not.

 

Why had Sherlock not thought of the tour guide himself? He should’ve been the first person to suspect.

 

Sherlock wanted to slap himself. First he needed to text Lestrade though.

 

When he finally moved from where he’d been rooted to the spot the moment he’d started shouting at John, Sherlock felt slightly dizzy. He recognised the symptom. He’d been malnourished enough times to know when his body was telling him that soon he’d collapse with the exhaustion of being forced to function on no food for days.

 

_John had been right._

 

John _had_ been right. Not just about Sherlock’s starvation, but about the suspect too. And if John had known about the suspect before Sherlock had, then maybe, just maybe, John was right about Sherlock needing something to eat and a bit of rest in order to function properly again.

 

Sherlock didn’t want to think about the possibility, but he couldn’t dismiss the evidence so easily.

 

The fact remained that John was a doctor and knew about brain functionality. John was also smart but not as smart as Sherlock, and Sherlock should’ve pointed to the tour guide hours ago.

 

Thirdly, and most importantly, John had been limping heavily when he walked out.

 

Sherlock was certain that the entire situation had reminded John about what happened when they broke up just as much as it did to Sherlock.

 

**_September 2016_ **

 

**_11:18am_ **

_The appointment was at 9:30am. Sherlock had received about a dozen texts from John, Mycroft and even Lestrade. He hadn’t read them but they probably asked if he was alright or if it was the traffic. Sherlock knew that eventually Mycroft would have contacted the surveillance team in charge of their flat to know whether Sherlock had left._

_By now John would know what was happening. He probably was on his way back to the flat._

**_9:12pm_ **

_Sherlock hadn’t moved from his armchair in over twelve hours. Mycroft had picked up John at 7:15am to take him to the tailor to pick up John’s tuxedo. John had smiled, kissed him goodbye and told him to not be late. Sherlock had kissed back and nodded. At 7:43am he had sat down in his chair._

**_9:36pm_ **

_The front door opened and closed and then the inner door followed._

_John wasn’t ascending the stairs yet, bracing himself before going upstairs._

**_9:41pm_ **

_Footsteps on the stairs. Finally._

**_9:43pm_ **

_Sherlock was sure that it had never taken anyone this long to climb up seventeen steps. Eventually, John pushed open the door to their flat._

_“So you’re not dead or severely injured then. Good to know,” John said calmly. He was looking at Sherlock; he was studying Sherlock, to be precise, with a certain look._

_Sherlock didn’t know what the look meant. He had catalogued all of John’s facial expressions. There was even an entire drawer in his mind palace dedicated to storing every one of John’s smiles. Yet, he didn’t know this particular look. If Sherlock weren’t acutely aware of the seriousness of their situation, he would be happy that John had managed to surprise him even six and a half years after they first met. Sherlock knew that this was one of the reasons why he had said yes to John’s proposal four months ago._

_“Are you going to tell me what happened today or will I have to guess?” John asked._

_Sherlock stayed silent. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to answer John’s question. It was that he didn’t want to tell him the real reason. John wouldn’t understand. Instead he said nothing at all._

_“Did you just not want to marry me or is it more than that? Do you not want to be with me?”_

_Sherlock still said nothing. How could he explain what he wanted and didn’t want in a way that John would understand?_

_John stared at him. Sherlock counted 34 of his own heartbeats before John took a deep breath, smoothed his hands against his thighs – a gesture Sherlock knew was meant to calm him down – and said, “Well, when you’re ready to tell me, let me know.”_

_Sherlock watched as John ascended the stairs to the second bedroom. The one they hadn’t used in over a year._

**_The next day, 10:06am_ **

_John walked down the stairs, went to the bathroom, followed by a brief trip to their bedroom and then back upstairs without so much as a glance in Sherlock’s general direction. Sherlock had moved from the chair to the couch a few hours ago and slept from 2:45am till 5:15am._

_When John came back down he was fully dressed and heading straight for the kitchen, taking the side door instead of the path through their living room._

_He was avoiding Sherlock. It was to be expected._

_John made tea and prepared toast for breakfast. Usually John would ask Sherlock whether he wanted anything and after Sherlock had refused, John would still bring him a plate with buttered toast and a cup of tea._

_Today John was silent and sat down in the kitchen to drink his tea and eat his breakfast. Alone._

_After he finished eating, washed the dishes and put them away safely in the cupboard that was reserved for food and cooking dishes only, he finally came into the living room. He was standing close to the door, looking at Sherlock with the same expression he wore last night after he finally got home. Sherlock still didn’t know what it meant even though he had spent most of last night thinking about it._

_John was pressing the palms of his hands against his thighs again._

_“Now will you tell me what happened yesterday?”_

_“I thought it was obvious,” Sherlock replied. He knew it wasn’t a good answer, but he had to give it anyway._

_“Yes, well, sorry for asking a silly question.” John took a deep breath, balling his hands into fists now. “But are you going to explain to me what it meant?”_

_Sherlock stood up and walked across the coffee table to plonk down into his armchair. “It meant that I don’t want to marry you. Ever. In fact, I don’t want to be in a relationship with you at all. It took me a while to figure it out but surely you’ll prefer that I don’t pretend.” He looked at John in the way he had reserved for people he was explaining something simple to._

_“Is this about what happened last month?” John asked slowly, looking at Sherlock like he expected him to rip out his throat any moment._

_Sherlock decided to not reply to that question. John should know the answer. Of course it was about what had happened last month. How could John think that Sherlock’s inability to solve cases would not be at least partly reason for the end of their partnership? Especially since it was John’s fault in the first place. He glared in lieu of an answer._

_“So you really don’t love me at all,” John finally said quietly, shoulders slumped._ Defeated _, Sherlock thought for a second before reigning himself in. He had to finish this. He had to be honest with John because John deserved honesty._

_“No, of course not. I told you I don’t fall in love with anyone. I thought you understood that when I explained it to you after we first started sleeping together,” Sherlock answered, making himself sound annoyed. He should have known that John hadn’t understood anything back then._

_“Right,” John said in that tight-lipped, cut off way he had whenever he was angry but didn’t want to show it. “I need some air.”_

_He grabbed his jacket and left the flat._

**_1:27pm_ **

_Sherlock was watching their living room via one of the surveillance cameras Mycroft had installed._

_John had returned half an hour ago. He had gone straight up to the other bedroom and come down a few minutes later with a suitcase and a duffel bag. He left the bag in the living room and went into their bedroom, only to emerge precisely 23 minutes later, suitcase now obviously heavier than before._

_After a short trip to the kitchen and once again in the direction of the bedroom, which meant that John was getting things from the bathroom this time, he grabbed his laptop and phone charger from the living room and put them into the duffel bag. He walked about the room again, stopping only at Sherlock’s violin case, then looked around one more time before leaving 221B, suitcase and duffel bag in hand, obviously forcing himself to not look back._

**_5:48pm_ **

**Sherlock,**

**I moved out, as I’m sure you’ve already noticed.**

**I think it’s better for the both of us if we stay away from each other. Don’t try to contact me. I won’t bother you either.**

**Goodbye,**

**John.**

****

_Beneath the note lay his keys to 221B._

~*~

Sherlock cringed. He hadn’t thought about That Day in a long time. He’d told himself that it wouldn’t help anyone to be reminded of the miserable end to an unhelpful relationship. The only reason Sherlock didn’t delete the memory was because frequently, and especially over the last few months, he’d needed to remember that he and John did have this kind of past and that they weren’t best friends anymore.

 

Because that was what Sherlock had wanted, wasn’t it? He wanted to cut John out of his life, to get rid of the man who’d made him empathetic, at least to a point. He wanted to shove out the person who had distracted him with food and sleep and sex. Who’d forced him to be polite to people so they wouldn’t get offended and would still pay them.

 

Well, the part where they got paid for their work had been a nice bonus.

 

And the sex _had_ been rather good.

 

If Sherlock were honest with himself, and usually he tried to be, he’d admit that being sympathetic toward other people had had its perks, too. He’d even managed to deduce a motive or two because he’d managed to imagine the situation the killer had been in.

 

So, yes, not everything about John had been bad. Sherlock had even liked that John had made him tea and toast for breakfast, even though Sherlock barely ever ate any of it and practically never during breakfast time. He might even have liked falling asleep next to John. At least the bed had always been warm and John had made for a good pillow.

 

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. They were burning with the strain of being forced to stay open for four days straight. He needed to sleep for a few hours, _definitely_ eat something and then he could go back to thinking properly again.

 

Just like John had said.

 

Sherlock groaned. John had been right about this, hadn’t he? Sherlock always knew that his body needed nutrition and rest to function and to serve his brain. However, he never thought that it would impact the workings of his mind if he went without food or sleep for a few days. His body certainly hadn’t failed him like that when he was younger.

 

The first time he’d noticed the problem was when he’d had that string of cases in August two years ago. The ones someone had designed solely for him. The cases that weren’t solvable because there was no motive other than to confuse him.

 

He should have seen that sooner, too. At the time he’d attributed the fact that he hadn’t solved any of those cases to John distracting him, when in fact John had tried to help him. He’d tried to tell Sherlock that his body needed sustenance to work and that without it his mind would not comply.

 

Even back then John had seen what Sherlock couldn’t and Sherlock had pushed him away for it.

 

He’d driven John away because he’d been scared of being changed into someone he didn’t want to be. The truth was, though, that John had never asked or forced Sherlock to change. He’d simply tried to take care of him, help him do his work better and gain an income from it.

 

All John had ever done was make Sherlock better at what he did. The empathy, the food, the sleep, even the sex had helped Sherlock to concentrate on The Work.

 

John had done all of this because he loved Sherlock, because he wanted him to be able to do what he liked, what he was good at. And John had never asked for anything in return other than Sherlock to marry him.

 

Sherlock wasn’t a weak man or fond of being overly dramatic when there wasn’t an audience. He certainly never made a scene when it came to his own emotions. However, when realisation hit and Sherlock suddenly knew that everything he’d made himself believe about John and himself had been a lie, that he’d deluded himself into thinking that John was changing him into someone he didn’t want to be, he collapsed and curled in on himself on the living room floor.

 

~*~

 

**It was mostly dark except for a small lamp on a table close to him. He was lying on a bed in a room that didn’t seem too big, maybe fifteen square metres. He was unbound and except for the splitting headache and thirst unharmed and comfortable. Someone had dressed him in soft pyjamas.**

**As soon as John felt up for it, he got up from the bed to look around. There was a light switch on the wall next to the bed and as soon as he flicked it, the ceiling lamp was lit.**

**On the opposite wall stood a small table and padded chair in the corner next to a big potted plant. There was a small shelf stocked with books next to it and to his right were two large windows, although he couldn’t see out of them. Someone had drawn the window shades and there was no switch, remote control or even crank that John could use to open them.**

**A small chest of drawers was positioned between the two windows and when John looked inside the drawers he found his jeans neatly folded, belt rolled up, and a set of clean underwear and folded shirts for at least a week.**

**John frowned. Whoever abducted him either wanted to mock him or make his stay as comfortable as possible. Since John had no clue in which part of town – or even the country – he was, let alone who might have taken him, he wasn’t too sure which option he preferred.**

**Opposite the windows was a door. John tried opening it but, of course, found it locked. However, there was another door next to his bed. John wasn’t even surprised anymore when he found a small bathroom behind it, complete with loo, bath tub, sink, two fluffy towels, an even fluffier bathrobe and all necessary toiletries.**

**John had no idea how much time had passed since he’d been taken. He suspected it must have been at least a few hours. Going by the state of his headache, he’d been drugged with a heavy dose of a sedative.**

**He decided that as far as cells and abductions went, this wasn’t too bad. For now he’d get something to drink from the sink in the bathroom and try to get some sleep. Hopefully the headache would be gone by the time he woke up again, which would give him the chance to think more clearly about his current situation and what he should do about it.**

**~*~**

**Day 1**

 

**10:12am** _We need to talk. SH_

**12:43pm** _As you know I’m not comfortable with this kind of conversation but we have to have it. SH_

**3:37pm** _John, answer my texts! SH_

**3:46pm** _Please. SH_

 

**5:57pm**

_“You’ve reached the mailbox of Dr John Watson. In case of an emergency call 999 or go to the nearest hospital. For everything else leave a message.”_

 

“John, you’re aware that I don’t call unless absolutely necessary. We need to talk so pick up your phone. Or call me back. Or come by Baker Street.”

 

**6:28pm**

_“You’ve reached the mailbox of Dr John Watson.”_

**7:13pm** _This is childish! Answer your phone! SH_

**8:11pm**

_“You’ve reached the mailbox ...”_

**9:39pm**

_“You’ve reached ...”_

**10:12pm**

_“... case of an emergency call 999 or go to the nearest hospital. For everything else leave a message.”_

~*~

 

**John woke to his stomach growling insistently.**

**He switched on the light on his bedside cabinet and rubbed his eyes. There was no way of telling how much time had passed since he’d fallen asleep, but at least the headache was gone.**

**After a quick detour to the bathroom, John went to get dressed and only after he’d turned on the ceiling light did he notice that someone had set down a tray of food and tea just inside the door. The tray held a plate with toast, jam, some cheese and ham, as well as a nice porcelain cup and a small pot of milk. There even was a tea cosy over the pot to keep it warm as long as possible.**

**It all looked like breakfast to John, so he guessed he’d been held for about half a day now.**

**John contemplated the possibility that any of this could be poisoned or drugged. However if his captors had wanted him dead, they’d have already killed him. Of course there was always the chance that they kept him alive only to kill him later, but for now they obviously wanted him alive and healthy.**

**Deciding that any more thinking could wait till later, John carried the tray over to the table and began to eat.**

**~*~**

**Day 2**

**9:16am** _If I don’t receive an answer within the next thirty minutes I’m coming to your flat. SH_

It was shortly after eleven when Sherlock rang the doorbell labelled _J. Watson_ on 5 Broome Way.

 

It was going on noon but John still hadn’t answered his door or even so much as looked out the window – unlike his neighbours who’d started watching Sherlock about fifteen minutes ago.

 

Sherlock figured that he could try for at least another twenty minutes before they called the police and about fifteen more after that before a police car would come anywhere near the building.

 

He rang the bell again.

 

~*~

 

 **1:32pm** _Had to give up because the old woman with two dogs and five grandchildren whom she hasn’t seen in at least ten years started throwing garbage at me. SH_

 

 **1:34pm** _I should report her for littering. SH_

 

 **3:33pm** _How much time do you need before you’ll talk to me? SH_

 

 **3:59pm** _Require answer. SH_

 

 **6:11pm** _Is two hours enough? SH_

 

Sherlock still hadn’t received an answer from John by the time midnight rolled round. He knew that if he disturbed John at night, the period of time needed till John voluntarily talked to him would be extended.

~*~

 

**The food was delivered through a flap in the bottom of the door. John hadn’t noticed the flap before, but when lunch was delivered, he was told to slide the empty breakfast tray through the flap out into the hallway and received a new tray in return.**

**John calculated that, no matter what drug they used, he couldn’t have been out of it for more than a few hours. Plenty of time to take him somewhere away from London and secure him in this room before he woke up again. Either way, he must’ve woken for the first time on the same day that he’d been taken.**

**He was now on his second of being held prisoner. He’d spent all of yesterday listening for any sounds he might or might not have been able to hear, exploring the room as thoroughly as possible and cataloguing the different voices of the people bringing him food (all sounding male, two, maybe three different people). The door was, of course, locked at all time.**

**John wondered whether his room was guarded or not. He thought he had distinguished the footsteps of at least two different people in addition to the ones who brought him food. So there were at least four or five people in the building. Of course it was entirely possible that he was held somewhere with people who weren’t involved in his abduction, but John thought it unlikely.**

**What he knew was that he would have to find his own way to get out of here. After he’d practically told Sherlock to fuck off and leave him alone, John was certain that Sherlock would not contact him for a while. Mycroft and his observation team may have noticed something, but John wouldn’t rely on them. It was entirely possible that the people who’d taken him were capable of tampering with the CCTV footage.**

**Yesterday after breakfast he’d looked around for his cell phone, but of course it was gone. Instead someone had slid his shirt and underwear from the day before under the door – freshly laundered and neatly pressed. If John were allowed to leave, or look out the window, he’d actually count his abduction as a holiday. Even so he was close to giving in and having a nice bath.**

**Either way, John was on his own and if he wanted to get out of here, he’d have to do it by himself.**

**However, right this moment someone was approaching and John guessed that it must be time for dinner. He picked up the tray from the table and slid it outside.**

**~*~**

**Day 3**

**8:12am**

****

Staring at his mobile, Sherlock willed it to receive a text from John. Of course he knew that John could be extremely stubborn but this was becoming ridiculous. John had never before ignored him this thoroughly. It annoyed Sherlock, especially now that he needed to talk to John, needed to explain. It was maddening.

 

**8:47am**

 

The practice was full of people. Sherlock tried to remember if there had been this many patients the last time he’d come to meet John at work. That had been almost two years ago and Sherlock had most likely deleted all the details of his visit that didn’t directly pertain to John.

 

He turned toward the receptionist, a young man in his twenties, recently married, gay, no children ... yet. Sherlock tried to look as friendly as he could manage despite all the noise and the data overflow he was currently receiving.

 

“I’m looking for Doctor Watson.”

 

The receptionist cringed, but quickly plastered on a strained smile. “I’m sorry, Dr Watson isn’t in today.”

 

Sherlock frowned. Was it John’s day off? No, that was Thursdays. It was Monday today.

 

“Have you tried his phone?” Sherlock hoped that the man wouldn’t pick up on the fact that he hadn’t told Sherlock that John was supposed to be here, but had unexpectedly not shown up and not even bothered to call to let them know.

 

“Yes, of course. He isn’t answering.” Married-with-no-children-yet suddenly looked like he realised his mistake, cringed again, took a deep breath and seemed to reach for the last bit of composure he could muster up. “If it’s an emergency you better go to the hospital, sir. Otherwise you’re welcome to wait till one of the other doctors is free to see you. That may take a while though.” He picked up a clipboard to note down Sherlock’s name and concern, but Sherlock quickly turned around and walked out.

 

If John wasn’t at work then he must be at home. John might also be seeking comfort from someone he knew well and trusted.

 

Who did John trust with taking care of him when he was emotional?

 

Molly? No, too close to Sherlock.

 

Lestrade? Same problem.

 

Sherlock didn’t know any of John’s other friends or whether he even had any outside of work.

 

There had been the girlfriend until a few weeks ago. Still, John had often managed to stay on good terms with the women he’d dated after they were broken up. Maybe she was the same?

 

Sherlock tried to remember her name from when he’d looked through John’s phone a month ago.

 

~*~

 

A woman with wild, blonde curls opened the door. PR manager, no pets, probably in the middle of breakfast, day off, attractive to most people, mid-forties, no children.

 

“Miss Richards,” Sherlock stated.

 

“Yes, and you are Sherlock Holmes.” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. _She knows me and she doesn’t like me._ That was no surprise, given that he’d probably come between her and John.

 

“I need to speak with John.” He tried peering around her and into her flat.

 

“He’s not here. Surely you already know that he and I aren’t together anymore.” Anger, maybe a hint of sadness, definitely defiance though.

 

“I’m aware. Nevertheless John’s always had the talent to stay friends with most of his past lovers and in a moment of distress he might seek out one of them. He didn’t go to work and he’s been ignoring all my texts and calls for over two days. So, I need you to let me speak with John,” Sherlock said as calmly as possible.

 

“He’s not here,” she said unhurriedly.

 

“He must be.”

 

“But he isn’t. If he didn’t go to work then maybe he’s sick. He’s probably in bed. If he’s ignoring you then maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to talk to you.” Her tone was positively icy now. Sherlock found that he almost admired her protective streak.

 

“Of course he doesn’t want to talk to me. But _I_ need to talk to _him_ and explain something. And he’s not sick or else he would’ve called the practice to let them know. Since they don’t know why he hasn’t come in John either didn’t bother to call because he was too upset or ...” Sherlock’s eyes went wide.

 

_Stupid. Stupid! STUPID!_

 

“Or what?” Miss Richard’s eyes widened fractionally, the look of dislike for Sherlock replaced with worry over John.

 

“Or he didn’t have the chance to call someone because something’s happened to him.” Sherlock didn’t take the time to say goodbye to the woman. He needed to get to John’s flat and break in and see if John was hurt.

 

~*~

**By the end of the third day John was fairly certain that there were two people responsible for bringing him meals, two more who guarded that hallway outside of his room and a fifth person occasionally giving orders.**

**He could deal with five people as long as he figured out a way to get out of this room first.**

**Maybe he could try breaking down the door but the room wasn’t large enough for a sufficient run-up. He could try breaking the windows but John guessed that the blinds were not made of cheap plastic or painted plywood. Those looked bulletproof and John had no way of breaking those.**

**No, for now he’d have to bide his time until someone decided to let him out for whatever reason.**

**~*~**

“Mycroft, I need your help.”

 

It galled Sherlock to have to call his brother, but he was standing in the middle of John’s flat and there was no John.

 

“I rather thought you might, yes,” Mycroft replied slowly.

 

“What do you know?”

 

“Not much yet. However, it looks like John was captured right after he left 221B Baker Street on Friday evening and brought to a still unknown location.”

 

“Unknown because outside of London, or because the CCTV has been tampered with?”

 

“The CCTV, although it’s of course entirely possible that he’s also been taken somewhere outside of London.”

 

“When did you start looking for him?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Only this morning when he failed to appear at work, I’m afraid.” The distress in Mycroft’s voice was apparent. Both men knew that it wasn’t possible to tell if John was still alive.

 

“How close are you?”

 

“I can’t tell. We know that from Baker Street they went south but I don’t know how far south or whether they changed directions at some point. It’s extremely laborious to check all the CCTV recordings in the vicinity of their suspected route. I’ll let you know as soon as I know more.”

 

Sherlock disconnected. He knew there was nothing more to be done than wait yet he couldn’t stay here, in John’s empty flat, and wait for Mycroft to call back.

 

He took one of John’s spare keys, closed and locked the door behind him and headed back home. There had to be something he could do.

 

The taxi was already rounding the corner of Baker Street when Sherlock realised that he hadn’t done the easiest thing yet. As soon as he got to his laptop he’d start tracing John’s mobile.

 

**Day 4**

 

Of course the GPS search for John’s phone hadn’t brought any results but at least Mycroft’s minions were closer to figuring out John’s location. From the looks of it the kidnappers hadn’t taken John outside of London. Currently it seemed like they could be found somewhere in Belgravia.

 

Sherlock didn’t have all that many fond memories of that particular part of the city; he even tended to avoid it altogether if possible.

 

Obviously Miss Adler hadn’t returned to live in London since she was supposed to be dead but still, whenever Sherlock came near her house he felt the kind of unease that always came over him when he thought too closely on how she’d manipulated him.

 

His phone chimed and Sherlock was out of the door before he was done reading the address. Mycroft’s team had found John.

 

~*~

 

**During what must have been the late afternoon hours someone approached his room. It was too early for it to be his dinner being served though. For the first time since he’d gotten here, the lock of the door turned, then someone opened it and stepped inside.**

**A middle aged man in a fine suit looked around the room before settling on John, who was sitting on his bed, reading one of the books from the shelves.**

**“Dr Watson, my employer would like to speak to you. Would you please follow me?”**

**John immediately got up from the bed to follow the man outside. He was sure he was in a posh house, upper storey, at the end of the corridor. John was led down the stairs and towards a room to the right of the front door.**

**The memory of a house with a similar layout came rushing back to him and John finally knew where he was.**

**If this was Belgravia, and everything pointed to that conclusion, then he would have a better shot at escaping and getting to safety than he’d expected.**

**As soon as they entered the living room, John noticed the man sitting in one of the chairs and watching John’s entrance.**

**He was in his mid-thirties, tall, tanned, with dark blond hair that had been slicked back, his expression hostile, although obviously controlled. John tried to imagine what Sherlock would’ve been able to tell about the man.**

**The only thing John knew for certain was that he’d never seen him before.**

**“Mr Watson.” His voice was deep, but not pleasantly so.**

**“It’s Dr Watson actually.” The correction was on impulse and John regretted it as soon as he said it.**

**The man in front of him sneered. “Of course. Little people always insist on their title if they’re given one.”**

**“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your questionable hospitality, Mister-?”**

**“Abercrombie, Graham Abercrombie. Not that it’s of any significance to you who I am. As for your question: You’re here to ensure that you’ll vanish.” Abercrombie looked at John as if he were something disgusting, something he’d rather squash under his shoes.**

**“But why not simply kill me and make my body disappear? Why keep me for four days before even talking to me? This could’ve all been over already,” John asked curiously. He had wondered about the purpose of his abduction. If his captors thought they could use him as blackmail material to bait Sherlock they’d be sorely disappointed. John tried not to think too hard about how once upon a time it had been different.**

**“Because it would be pedestrian and inelegant. Anybody can commit a murder. But to make someone disappear while they’re still alive, now that is beauty. As for the time you’ve spent here: My employees had orders to take you as soon as an opportunity arose. It just so happened that I was out of town for the last ten days and only returned last night.”**

**So his kidnapper was a pompous git in love with himself and had more money than anyone could spend. John already knew the type.**

**“You’re quite right, the unobtrusive murder would take some skill. Only, why me? What have I done to you that you’re so keen on disposing of me?”**

**“I want you gone from Sherlock Holmes’ life. The first attempt failed unfortunately, or else this wouldn’t be necessary. However, since you managed to insert yourself into his life again after I took so much time and effort to separate you in the first place – I was very disappointed. This time I will make sure that you won’t bother that brilliant man again.”**

**The hatred was palpable now. Not just in the voice and words but also the dangerous glimmer in the man’s eyes and hardened lines around his mouth. He was radiating enmity and disgust. Other people may have cowered before Abercrombie, but John was not about to give in so easily. He had his dignity after all. And, if he’d understood correctly what he’d just been told, then this man had had a hand in breaking up his and Sherlock’s relationship.**

**“The cases. You created those especially for Sherlock to not be able to solve them. You wanted him to blame it on me and break our engagement.” John was forcing himself to stay calm.**

**“Of course. It worked beautifully, too. Once Mr Holmes realised that you were holding him back, he ended your ... _entanglement_ ... and went back to his _real_ life partner: his mind.”**

**John did not know what to say or feel. He wanted to rip off this man’s head for driving Sherlock away from John. Then again, if not two years ago, then maybe at some other point Sherlock would’ve come across a case or two which he couldn’t solve and probably would’ve blamed it on John too.**

**“So what? Sherlock and I aren’t together anymore. We won’t be starting that kind of relationship again. In fact, I was going to get out of his life anyway before your people took me.” It was all true. John was sure that anything that Sherlock might or might not have felt for John was long gone. The work was once again the only thing that was important in Sherlock’s life. He’d said so only days ago. And John had made his decision even before their argument. If he wanted to get over Sherlock then he would have to leave. Wasn’t that the first rule of unrequited love?**

**John’s host looked slightly taken aback but didn’t let himself linger on it. “You’re lying. Even if it were true you wouldn’t be able to stay away from Sherlock Holmes. And how could you? He’s brilliant! But you don’t possess the self-control to keep your distance like I do. I only watch from afar but you think you’ve got the right to infiltrate this genius’ life, touch him, to make him do what you want.”**

**The man’s words were still full of hate but part of them rang true and John had to keep himself from physically recoiling.**

**Abercrombie was right. John would never be able to stay away from Sherlock if they lived in the same city. What John needed was a clean break. This man was offering one, if for the wrong reasons, served with a lot of cruel words.**

**John straightened his posture.**

**“Tell me where you’re going to take me and how I’m supposed to live my life there.”**

~*~

 

Four columns with Ionic capitals, whitewashed front, glass door with elaborate iron decor, three steps, large portico.

 

Sherlock rang the bell and waited. Less than thirty seconds later the intercom buzzed, someone asking him his name.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said. Only five seconds later the door was opened by a middle aged man in fine suit.

 

_Footman. Expected._

Sherlock stepped into the hall of the place to wait for the servant to close the door and announce Sherlock’s presence to his master.

 

The footman quickly rapped on the door to Sherlock’s left, but opened it only far enough to stick his head into the room. _Interesting._

 

A moment later the man turned around and beckoned Sherlock to come closer. He pushed the door open and stood out of the way to let Sherlock enter.

 

It only took him a few seconds to register that John was clean shaven, showered and dressed in a shirt that wasn’t his own. _He’s been kept in a room and has had access to a bathroom and new clothing._

 

There were no visible injuries, John stood tall, so there likely wasn’t any internal trauma. _He’s not been physically tortured._

 

When Sherlock looked up at John’s face, he found him alert and looking almost surprised.

 

_Surprised to see me? No other explanation probable._

The other man, Graham Abercrombie, as Sherlock knew from Mycroft, was paranoid. Sherlock knew that even before he had laid eyes on him. _No name on the door, obvious._

 

Now that Sherlock had the chance to observe him, he could tell that Abercrombie was nervous. _Light perspiration on forehead, flickering eyes, licks his lips every ten seconds_. He probably hadn’t expected Sherlock to show up. That also explained the unhappy look in his eyes. He’d had plans for John and Sherlock had just torpedoed them.

 

John was the first to talk. The surprise was completely gone from his face, leaving nothing but an impassive mask in place. Sherlock was torn between admiring John’s ability to keep a clear head and cursing it because Sherlock couldn’t read John’s emotions like that.

 

“How did you find me?” John’s voice too was not betraying anything.

 

“Mycroft.” It was all John needed to hear to understand. He knew that Mycroft had resources.

 

“Did Mycroft send people to retrieve me by force if necessary?” John asked calmly and Sherlock thanked him silently for not asking another question instead. He didn’t want to explain why it had taken them so long to get to him, to even notice that he was gone. If John were still living with Sherlock he would have known on the same day, would have found him earlier.

 

“I imagine that they’re on their way, if not already here. I left as soon as he told me where to find you.” Of course it had been a reckless plan of action. For all Sherlock knew it could have been possible that there were armed guards instead of a friendly footman to open the door.

 

“So we’re leaving?” John’s eyes briefly flickered to Mr Abercrombie.

 

“Yes, I suppose so, although I’d like to know why Mr Abercrombie here took you in the first place.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows questioningly at Abercrombie, who was fighting hard to regain his composure well enough to say something.

 

“I already know and I doubt he’ll want to tell you. Let’s go,” John said, already leaving the room.

 

Graham Abercrombie looked like someone had taken away his favourite toy. It made Sherlock wonder more about the motive behind John’s abduction, but now was apparently not the time to press for information.

 

Sherlock made a mental note to ask John about it later whilst following him out of the house and into the waiting black car.

 

The silence during the drive to John’s flat was deafening. In the past John would’ve made a comment like, ‘bit anticlimatic that, wasn’t it?’ or ‘at least we’ll be home for tea’, just something to lighten the mood and casually reassure Sherlock that he was alright.

 

Now John looked tired and unhappy and kept quiet the entire sixteen minutes it took them to get from Lower Belgrave Street to Broome Way.

 

Sherlock wanted to follow John inside the flat, make sure that he definitely wasn’t injured. John, however, closed the door of the car right after he climbed out, making it obvious even to Sherlock that he wanted to be left alone.

 

In a way Sherlock could understand that. John had been a prisoner for the last four days, even if a well-kept one. Still, he probably wanted to work through the last few days by himself and generally be left alone. Considering their argument and John’s emotional state right before he was taken, Sherlock was certain that John was giving Sherlock a not so subtle hint to back off.

 

Under different circumstances Sherlock would ignore John’s wishes. For now, though, Sherlock would follow John’s demand and keep his distance, at least for a little while and only because it served his ulterior motive.


	9. Chapter 9

**July 2018, three days later**

 

Doorbell, steps on the stairs, _not John_ , light knock on the door.

 

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock was lying on his back on the couch, hands put together in his favourite thinking pose. He hadn’t moved from this place in at least twenty-six hours and he didn’t plan on getting up any time soon.

 

“Sherlock, hospitable as usual.” Mycroft sat down in Sherlock’s armchair, legs crossed, hands folded on top of his right knee.

 

“Did Abercrombie tell you why he took John?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Indeed.”

 

Sherlock huffed in annoyance when Mycroft didn’t continue. It was just like him to keep vital information from Sherlock out of spite. “Why?”

 

“It seems that you found an admirer in Mr Abercrombie. He’s been, let’s say _intrigued_ with you for years, even before you met John.”

 

It didn’t make sense. If Abercrombie wanted Sherlock’s attention, why take John? And if he wanted to stay hidden and watch Sherlock unnoticed, _why_ take John?

 

“I see you struggle with the conclusion,” said Mycroft. “Would it help if I told you that, according to Mr Abercrombie, James Moriarty would have been your perfect partner?”

 

Mycroft’s voice didn’t betray anything but Sherlock knew his brother well enough to recognise that Mycroft still regretted helping Moriarty gain the upper hand over Sherlock all those years ago.

 

_Not important right now._

Abercrombie obviously disliked John for not being Moriarty, for being pedestrian and common.

 

_Not common, not pedestrian, never John._

 

If Abercrombie had been watching Sherlock then he must had seen that John was anything but common or pedestrian.

 

_Unless._

 

“What was he going to do to John?”

 

“Make him disappear. Apparently he had no intention of killing John; he just wanted to keep him away from you. He said something about a ‘bad influence’.” Sherlock didn’t need to see Mycroft’s face to sense his disapproval.

 

“Does John know why he was being held?” Sherlock wasn’t sure he was successfully hiding his worry from Mycroft.

 

“I’m afraid he does.” Mycroft’s voice was soft.

 

“You let yourself in, you can find your way out. Goodbye Mycroft.” Sherlock jumped to his feet, almost running to his bedroom to get changed. He needed to talk to John.

 

~*~

 

Two hours later Sherlock still hadn’t rung the bell to John’s flat.

 

He’d got there an hour and a half ago and had been intent on talking to John as soon as he opened the door. However, instead of ringing the bell Sherlock had started pacing in front of the building.

 

This conversation was important. It was vital he made John understand.

 

So Sherlock had started pacing in the hopes of finding the right words for every possible scenario that could present itself as soon as John let him in.

 

“Are you going to come in any time soon?”

 

Sherlock whirled around to find John standing in the doorway, his arms crossed and wearing only socks, pyjama bottoms and one of his favourite jumpers.

 

“Your neighbours recognised me and told you about the stranger who’s been stalking you since last week.” It was the only logical deduction, unless John made a habit of going out of the house wearing no shoes.

 

“Yes, they did. Asked me whether I wanted them to call the police.”

 

They stared at each other for a long moment. Then John turned around to walk back upstairs to his flat, leaving the door wide open.

 

When Sherlock stepped inside the flat he was glad to note that it was not a small bedsit. There were four doors leading from the hallway.

 

Sherlock walked towards the beam of light coming from one of the rooms and found himself inside the kitchen.

 

_Most neutral ground inside his flat, no encouragement to make myself comfortable, close proximity to the kettle if tea is needed._

John was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms still crossed in front of his chest. He was looking at Sherlock expectantly. It was obvious that Sherlock would have to be the one to start.

 

“You know why Abercrombie took you.”

 

“Yes.” There was something hostile in John’s tone. Sherlock didn’t know what it was or why it was there. Before he had a chance to ask, John continued, “I’m honestly surprised you came to get me.”

 

It took Sherlock a moment longer than he’d liked to understand what John meant by that.

_...It's not important, John. Nothing is important. Just my work, nothing else..._

_...How could I forget after experiencing firsthand that all that is important to you is your fucking intellect?..._

 

He wanted to explain; it was what he came here for. John needed to know. But for once in his life Sherlock was too slow to speak and John continued, suddenly determined to not let Sherlock get a word in.

 

“You told me you only needed your work. You broke up with me, stood me up on the day we were supposed to get married – all in the name of the work. You wanted to be alone, to stay detached from everything and everyone. So why, when someone was finally about to fulfil your dream, _why_ would you come and find me and drag me back into this life? This life, where I can’t have you but have to see you all the time? I can’t do it anymore, Sherlock. I wish you’d have left me there. Abercrombie wouldn’t have killed me, he only wanted me out of the way.”

 

John was looking down at his feet now, arms gripping the counter behind him. It would’ve been the perfect moment for Sherlock to interject. He didn’t.

 

“I was relieved, you know. When Abercrombie said he’d have me taken somewhere else. New identity probably, maybe a job, definitely a place to stay. I was about to agree and take all of it but then you swooped in and I did what I always do when you show up: I start revolving around you and following you. But the truth is it has to stop, Sherlock. This has to stop. You don’t want me but I do. I want you. I want _us_ , and seeing you, living in the same city as you, to always be at risk of accidentally running into you ... I can’t do it anymore.  Eight and a half years and I still can’t stay away from you of my own volition.”

 

He smiled sadly, finally looking up at Sherlock again. “I guess that chance is gone now. Mycroft has probably dealt with Abercrombie and ensured that none of this will ever happen again.”

 

Sherlock nodded slowly.

 

Neither of them spoke for a few long moments. Eventually John crossed his arms in front of his chest once more.

 

“Why are you here, Sherlock?”

 

“I needed to talk to you.”

 

John grimaced. “Yes, I’ve seen the dozens of texts and voice messages you’ve left me while I’ve been  ... away. Mycroft had my phone sent over yesterday.” He looked back down at his feet, obviously waiting for Sherlock to keep going.

 

“I want you to move back into Baker Street,” Sherlock continued. “You’ll save on rent and public transport. Additionally it’s going to be more convenient for cases when you’re already there instead of having to make the trip across town every time.”

 

John’s head had snapped back up as soon as Sherlock had said, ‘move back into Baker Street’. He was openly glaring at Sherlock now.

 

“You are unbelievable. After all those years I still don’t quite understand how you can be such an idiot when you’re supposed to observe everything so closely.” John was nearly shaking with anger.

 

“I just told you that I have to get away from you. I’m thinking about leaving not only London but the country. I’m close to asking _Mycroft_ for help.” He grimaced unhappily, the thought of asking someone else for help, especially Sherlock’s brother, was obviously displeasing to him. It was a testament to how desperate John was.

 

He sighed, all rage suddenly drained from him as if it cost him too much energy to stay angry with Sherlock. “Listen,” he said after a moment. “It’s not that I don’t _want_ to move back to Baker Street. I just cannot go through it again. Right now you want me back as your flatmate, your live-in colleague, maybe even your housekeeper. Whatever. But eventually you’ll be thinking again that I’m getting in your way or changing you or distracting you from solving cases. Abercrombie told me that he’d engineered the cases two years ago. You weren’t able to solve them because there was no other motive to the murders other than to confuse you.” John’s entire demeanour radiated sadness and regret. Sherlock didn’t dare interrupt. “He wanted you to think that I was the cause of your inability to solve those cases and he succeeded. There might be another Abercrombie in the future or a real case that you won’t be able to solve – whatever it is, you will come to the conclusion that having me around is not what you want after all, and I refuse to go through losing you for the third time. I’d rather make a clean cut right now and be in control of the situation.”

 

In that moment, John looked so broken and vulnerable like Sherlock had only seen him after he’d returned from his three year exile. For a second or two Sherlock thought that maybe John _would_ be better off without Sherlock because if staying with him caused John to look like this, then Sherlock wanted no part in it. He wasn’t able to promise to John that he would never hurt him, so John was right to assume that Sherlock would.

 

However, right now Sherlock felt like driving away John in the first place had been one of his worst decisions in life. If he didn’t say something, he’d lose him for good.

 

“John.” He stopped. Showing emotions was not something Sherlock did well. Feelings confused him, especially the stronger they were. The confusion scared him because he was Sherlock Holmes and he was never confused about anything. He always knew. Still, he needed to try, for John.

 

“John, I need you to come back.”

 

John raised his eyebrows, a look of hope flickering across his face before it was replaced by weariness. “Why?”

 

_This is it. Now or never. You’ve got nothing to lose. Or whatever it is normal people tell themselves in situations like this._

 

“I didn’t recognise it before because I’d never experienced the feeling previously. However, I think I know now.”

 

John’s eyes widened disbelievingly, the hopeful look returning instantly.

 

“John, I think I love you.”

 

For a long while neither of them said anything.

 

Then:

 

“You _think_ you love me?” John guarded his facial expression carefully so as not to give away anything about his thoughts on Sherlock’s confession.

 

“Yes. As I’ve just told you, I have no prior experience, but I seem to exhibit most of the symptoms of being in love. You’re constantly on my mind, I wish to impress you and to modify my behaviour to appease you. If you’re unhappy I want to make you smile again and if you’re happy it’s beneficial to my mood as well. Your praise of my work means more to me than anyone else’s ever did or likely will. So yes, based on the evidence, I love you.”

 

He watched John who had turned around in the middle of Sherlock’s explanation. He was currently staring at the cabinets, his back to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock was uncertain whether he should say more. Certainly he’d made himself clear. John would understand, wouldn’t he?

 

Still contemplating what to do next, Sherlock noticed John’s shoulders shaking. A moment later the unmistakeable sounds of laughter came from John. However, it didn’t actually sound like happy laughter. John used to laugh happily a lot and Sherlock knew exactly what it sounded like – all sixteen different versions. This was not one of them.

 

This was the kind of laughter John had produced after Sherlock had returned from the supposedly dead. It was miserable and disbelieving and decidedly not cheerful.

 

Needless to say Sherlock hated the sound of it.

 

However, a minute later he wished desperately that John had continued laughing, because now he was crying and if there was anything Sherlock disliked more than John’s humourless laugh it was this.

 

Sherlock wanted to go to him, to take back everything he’d said, to get John to stop whimpering miserably.

 

Only, the crying wasn’t the end of it. After endless moments of John trying (and failing) to sob quietly over his kitchen sink, he finally turned back around to look at Sherlock, eyes red and already lightly swollen, tracks of tears still visible on his cheeks.

 

“How dare you,” John hissed. “How _dare_ you come here after ... after _everything_ that you’ve put me through? Do you have _any_ idea what it’s been like? For me? Loving you for more than eight years and constantly being hurt, rejected and broken by you? And now, NOW!” John took a shuddering breath. “Now that I’ve _finally_ decided to move on, to get away and _get over you_ , now you decide that it’s a good idea to tell me that you _think_ you love me based on what you have observed of others who are in love. I can’t fucking believe you!”

 

As John had got louder and angrier and stepped closer to him, Sherlock was suddenly reminded of when he’d provoked John into punching him in the face. Sherlock was sure that if he’d had the chance to get a look at John’s eyes at that moment, they would’ve glinted just as dangerously as right now.

 

John stopped right in front of Sherlock, only inches between them. Sherlock could feel John breathing heavily, his chest almost touching Sherlock’s whenever he inhaled.

 

And then, suddenly, John was kissing him. He grabbed the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down, crushed their lips together while his other hand came up to the back of Sherlock’s coat, to hold on tightly and to drag him closer to John’s body.

 

Sherlock would never admit to it later but in that moment he was, once again, taken by surprise by John Watson. It took him five full seconds to process what was happening before he finally wrapped his arms around John and started kissing back just as forcefully.

 

He was in the middle of taking his coat off without interrupting the kissing, because John had just started to tease Sherlock’s mouth open with his tongue, when John suddenly pulled back. Afraid was not an emotion Sherlock usually associated with John but in this moment, with his lips still glistening and slightly parted, John looked scared. It was not a look Sherlock liked on John.

 

“Sherlock, you can’t do this to me. You can’t tell me you love me and let me kiss you. Because if you do, I’ll believe you and I’ll come back. But you will change your mind, and you’ll want me to go away again. And I can’t do that. Not again, not now. You have to mean this. And if you don’t, if you’re not sure, then just tell me. Tell me and then leave because I can’t do this again.”

 

He looked at John, noted all the cues from his facial expression and body language and slight tremor of his voice. Sherlock knew that John meant this, that he’d rather never see Sherlock again than be left by him a third time.

 

He’d also noticed the flicker of hope in John’s eyes earlier, felt John’s desperate need for Sherlock to mean his words.

 

It wasn’t a difficult decision to pull John back towards him and continue kissing him.


	10. Epilogue

**September 5 th, 2019, just after midnight**

 

They stumbled through the door of their suite.

 

“I thought tradition dictates that one carries the other over the threshold?”

 

“That’s for the first time we step into our joint home after the wedding.” John laughed. “Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s only for homes where at least one spouse hasn’t been living yet.”

 

They stopped just inside the living room to get rid of their ridiculously expensive Italian shoes, as well as their socks. John breathed a sigh of relief when his feet were finally free. A day of standing around and dancing with practically every guest had taken its toll on him. He was just relieved they got rid of their suit jackets a few hours ago. They were probably still down in the ballroom, but John was certain that the hotel staff would make sure they didn’t get lost.

 

“What if I wanted you to carry me?” Sherlock asked, undoing his cufflinks and setting them on a small table at the back of the sofa.

 

“Then you should’ve married me before I got shot. I’m afraid my shoulder won’t quite support your weight long enough to carry you around much,” John replied after putting down his own cufflinks next to Sherlock’s.

 

“Unfortunate. I had hoped you’d throw me onto this enormous bed and ravish me thoroughly.”

 

“I dare say that’s within the realm of possibilities.”

 

With that John tackled Sherlock, hoisted him over his right shoulder and carried him across the hall to their bedroom where he dropped Sherlock in the middle of the enormous king sized. Silently John thanked Mycroft for insisting on the Terrace Suite at the Dorchester. They would have to make sure they enjoyed the view from the panel of windows before leaving.

 

John shook his head minutely. Maybe later he could get Sherlock up against the window.

 

For now he wore an expensive suit that matched John’s own perfectly and was sprawled on a bedspread made of heavy brocade that probably cost more than John’s entire wardrobe.

 

Sherlock’s cheeks were slightly flushed and his shirt unbuttoned far enough to show off just the right amount of neck, which had been distracting John for long periods of time this evening. John wanted nothing more than to rip it off Sherlock but the suit had cost more than John made in a month and he was not going to ruin a lovely Dolce & Gabbana piece because he couldn’t control himself long enough to properly undress his husband.

 

_Husband._

 

Nearly a decade after Sherlock had changed John’s life they had ended up here. John was certain that more obstacles would arise and even over a year after they had got back together, John still caught himself waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

However, Sherlock had asked John to marry him, and he had said yes.

 

“Are you going to spend our wedding night just staring at me, or will I receive the ravishing that you promised?” Sherlock sat up and was reaching for John’s shirt.

 

“Yes, definitely. Just needed a moment to make sure this is real.”

 

Sherlock smiled at him and John wanted it to not look quite so sad. John knew Sherlock wished he hadn’t left John the first time round. In hindsight, though, John was almost glad Sherlock had. If they’d gotten married three years ago it would’ve hurt so much more to be rejected by Sherlock.

 

By no means was John happy about the time spent apart from Sherlock. However, it was possible that they needed that time away from each other, or at least Sherlock might have needed it.

 

John took Sherlock’s face in his hands and bent down to kiss him.

 

 _Kissing Sherlock will never be not perfect_.

 

He smiled into the kiss, slowly pushing Sherlock back down onto the bed.

 

John straddled Sherlock’s hips, never letting his mouth leave Sherlock’s lips. A few moments later he finally pulled back to trace his fingers over prominent cheekbones and pale neck to the buttons on the white, ornate shirt.

 

How Sherlock had managed to not wrinkle the fabric noticeably was a mystery to John but he was not going to dwell on that now. He had a husband to unwrap.

 

Button after button slowly came undone, John stopping after opening each one to place small kisses and licks on the newly exposed skin of Sherlock’s torso.

 

When the shirt was finally completely open John bestowed a last kiss to Sherlock’s belly button before starting to work on the trousers. The fabric felt perfectly rough-smooth beneath his fingers. He’d fought hard to keep from stroking the material every few minutes when he and Sherlock were still wearing their jackets. However, now in the privacy of their ridiculously large suite, John would allow himself a few moments of indulgence.

 

He slid down far enough to make room for Sherlock to part his legs. When John settled back between Sherlock’s thighs, he pulled one leg up and let his cheek glide against the cloth. Sherlock moaned quietly and John lowered his head to gently rub his other cheek against Sherlock’s crotch. The combination of the feel of the fabric and Sherlock’s subdued musky smell was perfect. He was truly grateful that both Sherlock and Mycroft had insisted on buying these exact suits.

 

“John,” Sherlock groaned and John looked up. Sherlock was propped up on his elbows and staring at John with his cheeks flushed and mouth slightly parted.

 

“I know, love. In a moment.”

 

John sat back on his haunches and started to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s trousers before pulling them down, along with the black boxer briefs Sherlock was wearing beneath, and dropping both on the floor next to him.

 

Sherlock cringed for a split-second and John knew he was thinking about how horribly creased and rumpled the trousers were going to be if not put away neatly, but nothing in the world could’ve made John look away from Sherlock right now, not even a pair of trousers worth three hundred pounds.

 

Sherlock’s blush had extended to his chest, which was moving with increasingly shallow breaths. His legs parted, the right one bent again as if to invite John to put his cheek against it once more. John was certainly tempted but it would have to wait.

 

He motioned for Sherlock to sit up so he could take off his shirt completely. John let it fall on top of the trousers while Sherlock started on John’s shirt, unbuttoning it more quickly than John had done. Sherlock pushed it off John’s shoulders impatiently and instantly latched his mouth onto John’s scarred left shoulder.

 

John knew that he wasn’t really able to feel Sherlock’s lips and tongue nipping and licking the scar tissue, but it sent sparks up his spine nevertheless. He would have to stop Sherlock soon or he’d lose his mind and take this faster than he had intended.

 

When Sherlock started to move down to John’s left nipple he finally gently pushed Sherlock away to bend down to claim his mouth again.

 

“Move on your stomach. I’m not done with you yet,” John said between kisses and Sherlock complied almost immediately.

 

By the time Sherlock was settled on his stomach John had grabbed the lube from the nightstand and knelt down next to him on the bed. He coated the fingers of his left hand generously with lube before leaning down far enough to trail kisses and licks across Sherlock’s neck and shoulders.

 

John slowly trailed his mouth all over Sherlock’s back while circling his hole with his fingers, gradually slipping first one, then two fingers inside.

 

Sherlock moaned softly, head turned to the side.

 

When John’s lips finally reached Sherlock’s arse, John had four fingers inside Sherlock, whose breathing had been reduced to shallow pants and needy noises meant to coax John into action.

 

John felt for Sherlock’s prostate, brushing it lightly, and Sherlock shuddered violently.

 

“John Hamish Watson-Holmes, if you don’t put your cock inside me right this instant I will steal all the covers for at least a month,” Sherlock threatened breathlessly.

 

John carefully removed his fingers and earned another low whine from Sherlock. “Turn around, I want to see you.”

 

Sherlock flipped over and John had to take another moment to just look at him: cheeks and chest flushed, mouth slightly parted, cock hard and leaking pre-come. _Breathtaking._

 

A few seconds later Sherlock made an impatient noise that shook John out of his reverie. He made quick work of taking off his trousers and underwear before climbing back onto the bed.

 

“Alright, alright, I’m here.”

 

John snatched the tube of lube to slick himself after moving in between Sherlock’s parted legs. He took hold of Sherlock’s knees, draping one leg over his shoulder and the other around his waist. Sherlock immediately used the leg around John’s middle to pull him closer, causing John to hiss in surprise when his cock brushed against Sherlock’s skin.

 

“You’re very impatient tonight,” he chided playfully but brushed the head of his cock against Sherlock’s hole nevertheless. Slowly he eased inside, watching as Sherlock fisted the sheets and breathed more shallowly with every inch.

 

Finally, when John was fully inside Sherlock, he leaned down to kiss him and let Sherlock’s leg slip from his shoulder. John sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip, biting down lightly only to sooth it with his tongue a moment later. Sherlock tried to lift his head further off the bed to deepen the kiss but ended up pulling John’s head down instead. Content to just let their lips move lazily and caress Sherlock’s tongue with his own for a moment, John made no attempt to move away.

 

Eventually Sherlock loosened his grip in John’s hair and let him pull away. When he straightened again, he took hold of Sherlock’s hips and started thrusting slowly, brushing up against Sherlock’s prostate every now and then.

 

It soon became apparent that John had no intention of going faster any time soon and so Sherlock panted, “John, please, I need more,” in the hopes of spurring John on.

 

However, instead of going faster, John stopped altogether, drawing a long whine of protest from Sherlock.

 

“More what?” John asked cheekily. Sherlock rarely begged but tonight John was determined to draw this out as long as possible.

 

“Everything,” Sherlock moaned.

 

John absolutely loved seeing Sherlock like this: when he gave up control and succumbed to sensation.

 

“Then make yourself come.”

 

Sherlock groaned but brought his hand up to stroke his cock roughly. The sight spurred John on and he began pumping his hips faster, chasing his own orgasm.

 

After the prolonged foreplay, it didn’t take Sherlock long before he spilled over his hand and chest, followed by John, who went completely still deep inside Sherlock as his own orgasm hit.

 

They both panted heavily, and it took all of John’s remaining strength to pull out carefully and pick up the wet towel from the nightstand instead of just collapsing on top of Sherlock.

 

“I’m not sure whether I should be mortified that the staff thought of providing us with lube and a wet towel,” John said while dabbing at Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock, of course, didn’t dignify that with an answer.

 

When they were sufficiently cleaned up, John prodded Sherlock to get up for a moment so he could pull off the bedspread.

 

 _That’s going to need a good dry cleaner._ John couldn’t help giving a satisfied smirk. He pulled back the covers and motioned for Sherlock to get in bed, pulling up the sheets only to their waists, as they were both still overheated and sweaty.

 

Sherlock’s head came to rest on John’s right shoulder, neither of them saying a word for a little while.

 

When eventually John began shivering from the cooled sweat on his chest, Sherlock pulled the sheets over them completely, lifting himself up far enough to kiss John.

 

“I do, you know. Love you,” he whispered against John’s mouth before kissing him again.

 

John felt something tugging at his heart and he knew he could’ve never left this behind. Even if one day Sherlock decided that the whole marriage and relationship business wasn’t for him after all, John would never be able to leave on his own accord. He was married to Consulting Detective Sherlock Aurelius Valentine Holmes-Watson and there was no going back from that.

 

“I know. I love you too. Sleep now. I intend to get you out of bed in a few hours and fuck you against that window while London comes to life.”

 

John felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder.

 

Yes, this was where he belonged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are a bunch of people whom I need to thank.
> 
> First of all: wiccaqueen, who encouraged me to do this, who listened to my first rough plot draft and who inspires me. Thank you, love.
> 
> Adrianne for her artwork and her patience with my special wishes. It’s very much appreciated and I do like the end results very much.
> 
> Another thank you to the mod of johnlockbigbang.livejournal.com for hosting the challenge and doing all the orga work.
> 
> There is also subtlemagic, who’s been my first beta for this as well as my Consulting Chemist. I honestly have no clue about Chemistry but she helped me with all that and made me look good xD
> 
> Then there’s myloveshine, who agreed to beta this despite not liking Sherlock or even watching it. I’m forever grateful that she took the time to read and beta this story for me. You make me a better writer and, what’s more, you make me want to be a better writer. All you do for me and did for this story is so very much appreciated. And look: I’ve finished a project! The first one in years :D
> 
> Last but certainly not least, Iris, aka consultinginsomniac, my partner in crime and my third beta. Thanks to her insight into the characters, her obsession with grammar and style, her eye and appreciation for good smut (because without her help the porny bits would just be clunky and less sexy than they {hopefully} are now) and her absolute devotion to go over all of the ~42,000 words to help me make this the best fic it can be ... I have no words for how much that means to me. <3
> 
> This has been an adventure as well as a constant source for frustration. The amount of times I’ve hit a wall and complained to one of my lovely ladies up there about not knowing how to continue, let alone make the characters do what I want ... They were all incredibly patient with me, acting as my sounding boards, handing out suggestions and always telling me that I could do this. Without them this fic would not have been possible. 
> 
> The title comes from Steve Carlson’s amazing song “I’ll remember you”. It’s one of my favourite songs and (quite accidentally) fits this fic rather well. I highly encourage you to go check it out.
> 
> If you’re interested, there will be additional info and visual aids. I’ll be posting them to AO3, where this will become a series, called I’ll Remember You (yes, after the song that gave this fic its title). I don’t want to give away too much but there are flat layouts and an alternate version of one scene, told from John’s POV. There’s also an annotated map of London. There are also going to be some things from the Epilogue. So, if you’re into that kind of stuff as much as I am, you’re welcome to check it out.
> 
> And, nearing the end of my wordy thank you speech (what else would it be? I should count the times Iris or Christina told me to not be so wordy all the time xD), let me just say THANK YOU for reading and possibly commenting on it, or leaving kudos. It means a lot to me to know that you liked my work or took the time to tell me what it was that you thought to be problematic.


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